The Second Man
by Eden Evergreen
Summary: Several members of a farming village near December are murdered. The Sheriff arrives to find a stranger standing over a badly injured survivor. Surely this stranger must be the killer... right? ... (Set before the anime/manga years... This tale should work reasonably well for either universe, even though the manga's calendar dates are used.)
1. Tragedy

_**Note on Chronology:**__ The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin. Aside from making use of the Manga calendar, in which July has not yet become "lost," this should work equally well for either universe._

_**Spoilers**__ mostly only if you haven't seen the anime episode #13 "Vash the Stampede" or else read the chapter in the Trigun manga (yes, that's "Trigun," not the later "Trigun Maximum") titled "Scars."_

_**Misc**__: In my head, I envision this as a movie. I hear it with Milly's voice also providing Martha's voice, Vash's voice (of course) doing Vash, Meryl's voice also doing Sally and one (or more) of the ladies who bring food, and Wolfwood's voice doing either Dusty or else Ike and Frank. Perhaps that idea may increase your enjoyment as you read this. _;-)

_**Ownership**__: I do not own Trigun, Trigun Maximum, "Meryl Stryfe," "Milly Thompson" or "Vash the Stampede": all of the aforementioned belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow. "Martha Fitzgerald" and the other inhabitants of the village are my own invention. I did my best to keep each one consistent with the world of Trigun._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 1: Tragedy**

_Year 0110 month 8 day 17_

I put Milly's letter down on my desk, and smoothed it slightly with my left hand. I've nearly memorized it, since its arrival yesterday. There is really no need to read it again, nor to re-familiarize myself with its contents.

I will probably read it again anyway. I briefly smile at my own foolishness.

I turn and walk away from the desk, unintentionally rubbing at my left wrist with my right hand. When I realize what I am doing, I feel one corner of my mouth quirk upward again. I move the toes on my right foot, and smile more widely.

I am again remembering the second man. Thinking of him always makes me smile. His brief visit, nearly 20 years ago, completely changed the lives of every soul in this small farming village - including mine.

Those changes are a vast improvement over what we were becoming.

Everyone has been curious about his fate after he left us. As far as I know, I am the only one here to whom he ever told his name. Thanks to that, and thanks to Milly's letter on my desk (which came yesterday), I now know what nobody else does.

Or at least, it's something that nobody else _here_ knows… Milly probably knows, or at least guesses. Otherwise, she'd not have written me this letter.

I am glad that I had told my young niece enough that she could recognize him. If I hadn't, she could not have written and sent me this letter. The letter has quickly become as precious to me as my own memories of the man it describes.

Since the baby was safely in her cradle for her afternoon nap, I sat down and relaxed. I let my mind drift back through the years, to a day that came slightly less than two months before my big-big sister's youngest daughter was born.

My thoughts drifted all the way back to that day when he arrived at our village...

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_Year 0092 month 2 day 8_

Ike yelled at me at 11:32 am. I happen to recall it so precisely because I chanced to look at a clock at the time.

"Peggy!" Ike Hansen called down the stairs. There was an extra sharpness to his voice, making him sound more impatient than usual… perhaps even angry. "Get Sally and the kids locked into the cell for safety, and throw the key in. We're bringing down a prisoner!"

I rose unsteadily to my feet, and hobbled to obey… careful of my bad leg, as usual. My right foot and leg hurt every time that I stepped on it, as it always had. I grimaced, but tried not to let the pain slow me down too much.

Delaying while Ike was in this mood was not wise.

I did what Ike had ordered me to do. He was the sheriff, after all. My middle-big sister, Jane, had married him. That made him family, too. Both were good reasons to avoid provoking him, especially when he was in a foul mood.

I knew without being told that I should wait outside the cell after locking my sister and the little kids into it. If the prisoner somehow broke away from the deputies, I should try to fight him and keep him away from Sally and the little kids. While fighting the prisoner, I should be screaming loudly for others from upstairs to come and help.

Nobody cared what happened to me. I was the least valued person in the whole village, and I knew it.

"Done," I called up, when I had accomplished all that he asked. I began hobbling toward them, curious to see the prisoner. I folded my arms across my chest, tucking my malformed left hand under my right forearm. That kept it warm, and out of sight.

At least my status as the last-ditch effort to protect my big-big sister, and the little kids, permitted me a front-row seat to whatever was happening.

Ike and Dusty had a lanky blond man whom they were wrestling down the stairs. His hands were cuffed. The little I could see of his face, through his abundant unruly hair, looked as if his face was swollen and bruised. He was doubled over and stumbling, and clutching at his gut as though he'd received some kind of injury there. Since he was all doubled over, it was difficult to tell how tall or short he was.

I winced, too familiar with those pains. I couldn't help sympathizing with a fellow sufferer. My right hand instinctively rose to the crescent-shaped scar that disfigured one side of my face. When I felt my own fingertips against my cheek, I quickly lowered my hand to its former position.

I had more than my fair share of scars. My bad foot made me clumsy when walking, so it wasn't especially unusual for me to trip or stumble, and fall onto something sharp. Rakes, hoes, or even shovels could cut skin deeply enough to leave a scar. And that's only the smaller stuff… It wasn't unusual for some of the other kids to "help" me fall, either.

The man wore a long coat that was so covered with dust and dirt that it was difficult to tell its color. Daylight coming through the windows shone on a silvery loop attached to his left earlobe. Dark leather boots covered his feet.

"Please," the prisoner said softly, through his swollen and bruised mouth, "let me go so that I can stop him from hurting anybody else."

"Do I look like some kind of idiot?" Ike snapped.

He and Dusty threw the man through a doorway and onto the floor of the nearest cell.

"Like he-" Dusty glanced past me, probably at a disapproving expression from Sally, and hastily revised what he had nearly said.

Dusty was the next youngest, except for me. So a disapproving look from Sally, our big-big sister, would remind him of his manners.

"Like _heck_ we're going to turn you loose, so that you can kill more people!" he shouted. "We may be farmers, but we're not stupid!"

They both repeatedly kicked the man in his sides and stomach, with their pointy-toed Thomas-riding boots. He curled up, trying to protect his body with his arms and legs, but they kept kicking him.

"No!" I shouted.

I pulled at their arms, and tried to get between them and the man on the floor. I was hoping to stop them from hurting him. They pushed me out of the way, and continued.

"Don't," the prisoner pleaded.

His protests quickly grew weak, and then faded away unheeded. The man spit blood, and then he went completely limp.

Dusty swung back his leg, as if he planned to kick the helpless man lying unconscious on the floor - again.

"Stop it!" I screamed. I desperately grabbed my brother's arm with my good hand, and pulled hard enough to turn him around. "You'll kill him!"

"So what?" he snarled. "He killed almost everyone in the southeast fields of the O'Dell farm today, before we got there. That includes our little-big sister, Nancy, and both of our brothers. They were all cut up, Martha. They were sliced to ribbons. He was bending over old Mildred McCall when we arrived, holding her wrist where he'd cut it. Bob, Liam, Joe and Seamus are looking after her and Hank… Mildred and Hank seem to be the only ones that he didn't finish killing before we arrived. We don't know yet if they will survive."

"Oh, no!" I gasped, horrified.

Tears came into my eyes, and, for a few heartbeats, I was as still as a stone. It was too much to take in all at once. Then I looked down at the man who hadn't fought back – not even to defend himself. Somehow, I just could not believe that he was the one who had done this terrible thing.

"Did you _see_ him kill them?" I asked.

"No, but the bodies were there and he was there," Ike said. "That's all the evidence we need."

"But he might be telling the truth," I said, edging more completely between them and the unconscious man. "He didn't fight back, not even to defend himself, while you were kicking him. If Hank or Mildred lives, then they can tell us what happened. Shouldn't we at least wait to see what they have to say? If we don't, we will be worse than whoever killed the others!"

Dusty growled something that I couldn't quite catch. He and Ike both scowled at me.

"We'll still strip him," Ike finally said. "We need to make sure that he doesn't have any other weapons. Get out of our way, Peggy, so we can do our job."

I reluctantly moved out of their way. I quickly wiped tears from my face, and watched.

They took off his long dusty coat, which revealed a strange leather outfit. His leather clothes reminded me of some of those very old pictures of people who had survived the Great Fall. There were an insane number of buckles holding his leather clothes in place.

Ike reached into his back pocket. "I'll cut these &amp;^#% things off!" he growled.

I quickly volunteered to undo all those buckles, before he could cut any of them.

"What if he's a lawman?" I said. "He might not like it if we mess up his clothes. I'll undo the buckles, if you don't want to do it."

"If he was a lawman," Ike said, "he should have a badge. And he should have identified himself as a deputy, or a marshal, or whatever he is."

"Don't be stupid, Peggy," Dusty said.

Ike uncuffed the man, and gestured to Dusty. They stepped back a few paces, with their guns aimed at him.

"Go ahead and undress him, Peggy," Ike said. He was starting to sound more tired and less angry, but I knew from prior experience that this was also a dangerous mood. Even though when Ike's hand flew at me, it was _usually_ open... I still wished to avoid provoking him, especially when he was already this riled.

I began working on the prisoner's buckles and straps. Soon I was blinking back tears. I had thought that I was badly scarred, but this man… the more I uncovered, the more scars I found. He had perhaps ten times as many scars as I did.

I suddenly felt guilty for every time I'd pitied myself, because of my scars.

It took time to unfasten his clothes. I only have one functional hand, and there were a _lot_ of buckles. It was especially uncomfortable work with Ike and Dusty both glowering impatiently over my shoulders the whole time. I was surprised to see that his left arm was artificial. I couldn't help glancing at my own useless left hand, and briefly wondering if his false hand worked any better than my misshapen hand. I quickly continued unbuckling his leathers, fearful of kicks aimed at me (or him) if I dawdled.

I finally got the stranger stripped down to his underwear. More blood had trickled from his mouth as I worked. There was a gurgling sound when he breathed that worried me.

"Please," I said, "at least put him up onto one of the beds? Give the poor soul a chance to live, and answer the charges against him."

"Be cheaper for everyone if he dies," Dusty said angrily.

I turned enough to stare Dusty straight in the eye. "Not if he's innocent," I said.

We glared at each other for the space of several heartbeats before Ike muttered, "You're both Fitzgeralds, all right. You lot are all too dang stubborn for your own good."

Ike said nothing more, but he did gesture to Dusty. They grabbed the prisoner by his shoulders and heels. They lifted him up with – for them – reasonable gentleness, and laid him on one of the prison cell's beds.

This cell, like each of the other four, had three bricked-in walls and one that was bars. The wall to the outside had two small, barred windows in it near the ceiling. The wall that was made entirely of bars, and contained the door, faced the wide hallway.

Two bench-beds were attached to two of the brick walls, filling one corner of the bricked-in walls. The other corner with two brick walls had the sink and toilet. Some of the other cells also had upper bunks, but this one did not.

There were two cells on the side of the building with the staircase, and three on the opposite side. There was a barred door at the foot of the stairs, in addition to the barred walls and doors of each cell. The hallway between the individual cells could serve as another cell, if needed. The hall had benches along its center, with rings in the floor to secure chains.

Most times, the hall and its benches were used by people who were visiting.

I persuaded Ike and Dusty to lay the poor man on his side. They grudgingly shifted him so that he rested on his left side. They shackled his wrists and ankles before they left the cell, which seemed a needless precaution since the poor fellow was hurt so badly that he was struggling simply to breathe. The shackle chains ran through rings in the floor.

"I'll look after him," I said, as I hobbled into the cell and sat down on the other bench-bed. I held up his head a little, worried about that gurgling sound when he breathed. I didn't want him to drown, inside, in his own blood.

"Please," I said, "bring a bucket and some rags to wash him, a blanket to cover him, and a few pillows to prop up his head."

"Anything else you want, your highness?" Ike mocked, performing an elaborate bow.

I glared at him. "I'll not leave him alone so that you can kill him while my back is turned!"

"It should keep her out of our hair for awhile," Dusty said grudgingly.

"Fine," Ike said. "You go get what she wants, and see how lunch is coming along while you're at it."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dusty grumbled. "When Peggy's busy, I get all the dirty work."

"Get used to it," Ike said, sounding slightly more cheerful. "She may be busy for awhile."

Dusty glared at him as they locked me into the cell with the hurt man. They both went upstairs.

"Hold on, please," I whispered softly, hoping to encourage the battered prisoner. "Don't die." I could smell his sweat and blood, but I could also smell the desert winds on him.

I'd enjoyed the smell of those winds when breezes came, on days when I helped work in someone's fields. I wondered how long he'd been out in the desert, to have that smell on him strong enough to even notice along with the stronger smells of his sweat and blood.

I heard Sally turning the keys in the door of the cell where we'd been playing with the children. She came to stand just outside the barred wall of the cell I was in. She was moving carefully, because she was nearly 8 months pregnant.

My sister had to move carefully because of the size and weight of her coming child. Sally already had several children, but that experience hadn't helped her to move gracefully in the last months. She'd started talking constantly about what a relief it would be when the baby was born, so that others could take turns holding him or her, over a month ago.

The town had a betting pool going as to whether this child would be another girl, or else another boy.

"If Ma had lived longer, Dusty might be more civilized," Sally said sadly. "I still sometimes wonder at Jane choosing Ike, too. Thankfully, my Jake is a man with both justice and some kindness in his heart. He will stand with us, when he hears what happened."

I nodded silently, too torn between grief and anger to find any polite words to say.

I knew that Sally didn't mean to hurt me. She was the closest thing to a friend I had in the whole town, except, perhaps, for old Mildred. They were the only ones who always called me "Martha," my real name, instead of "Peggy" – a reference to how my right foot was crippled, and functioned more like a peg-leg than a foot.

I could never forget the glares that most of our neighbors bestowed upon me, when they reminded me that my mother had died on the night when I was born. It hurt, every time I saw those glares or thought about them. There had been absolutely nothing I could do, but they all blamed me anyway.

It had been my parents' anniversary. Pa had rented a Thomas-carriage, and taken Ma to a fancy restaurant in December, 173 iles away. Something had spooked the animals, and the driver had lost control of them long enough for their excitement to overturn the carriage. I was born prematurely, with a damaged hand and foot. Ma had died.

I've seen pictures of her. She was beautiful. People tell me that she was kind, wise, gentle and courteous, and had a way about her that brought out the best in others.

She'd been the town's schoolteacher. She was replaced by a grumpy man – so grumpy that his wife had left town ten years ago, and never come back.

The younger school-age children are currently taught by his younger sister, who's nearly as stern and impatient as he is. Those two make the children grumpy, which causes grumpy parents, and that results in people glaring at me a lot.

It hadn't helped when Pa drank himself to death, five years after Ma's death, either. I've been told that he had never touched a drop of alcohol… before she died. I wish I could have known him then, instead of the way he was during those five years.

The other children act on their parents' feelings. I am the brunt of every joke, the target of every prank. I learned long ago that there was no use in complaining about it. They've all made up their minds about me, and nothing I say or do will change that.

They treat me as if I'd killed her. They don't think my life is worth my mother's death.

I'm not sure that I disagree with them. Unfortunately, I cannot trade places with her. Ma's gone, and I'm here. That's simply the way it is. It's not much of a life, but it's all that I have.

The injured prisoner stirred, pulling my meandering thoughts back to the present and giving me a fine excuse to avoid saying anything to my big-big sister. He grabbed my right forearm, near where my normal hand supported his head.

"Children?" he said softly, and then he coughed and gasped in pain. His grip loosened, but he did not let go.

"Shh! Don't try to talk," I said gently. "You might hurt yourself. Yes, there are children here, but I won't let them bother you while you're healing."

He coughed, winced, and gasped out the words, "Not here. Where they caught me. Children, crying…" his grip my forearm tightened again. "Help them, please!" His wide, blue-green eyes – which were partly swollen shut, from the beating he'd received – spoke eloquently of his concern, until they were again closed as he grimaced in pain.

"O my God," I blurted out. Believing that God knows all that is in my heart, the rest of my prayer was a heartfelt, wordless hope that the (unattended?) children were all right.

I looked up at Sally, shocked by his words. "Were Ike and the deputies so eager to beat this poor man that … could they have forgotten the children? Did they leave the little ones there, in a farmhouse surrounded by their parents' dead bodies?"

Almost everyone in our village took turns helping, when harvest time came. Each year we started at a different farm, and rotated around the village clockwise until all of the farms were completely harvested. It had been an extra-hot summer this year, so harvest-time came a little earlier than usual. This year, it was the O'Dell farm's turn to be harvested first.

That's where the killer had attacked.

Most of the children's parents were probably dead, killed earlier today. Their elder siblings would still be in school at this hour, so nobody would be asking about them… at least, not yet.

"I'll go upstairs and ask," Sally said. She looked a little pale.

I nodded at her, and then looked down at the poor prisoner. "We'll send someone to check," I told him. The children won't be left there alone."

"Mildred… Hank?" he asked softly, still struggling to breathe.

"They're probably being taken to December, to the hospital," I said. "They're still alive, or at least they were the last I heard."

"Thank …" he began. He coughed, and passed out, before he could say anything else.

The little children were all standing crowded against the barred wall, peering in. Their eyes were large with curiosity.

The severe heat of any summer was best escaped by going to a room that was at least partially underground. There were three buildings with basements in our town. One was the bank, where the vault was. It wasn't a place for children, the bankers said. We chose not to argue with them about that.

Another was the building whose purpose changed according to each day of the week. On Sundays, it was the church. On Saturdays, it was the courthouse or the town meeting house, or (mostly in the evenings) a potluck and dance hall. On those days, the little children could play downstairs there.

Monday through Friday, it was the schoolhouse. Older kids were upstairs, taught by the grumpy schoolmaster. Younger kids were downstairs, taught by his sister. On school days, that wasn't a fit place for those too young to take classes to go and escape the heat.

The third building with a basement was the Sheriff's office. The downstairs area held the jail cells, which were usually empty. When any cell had someone in it, the occupant was generally one of our village lads who'd "had a few too many." He could sleep off his excesses there, instead of making a nuisance of himself elsewhere.

It became the practice for half the little children to be cared for in the jail on weekdays, while the other half were at whatever farm was getting assistance, during the harvest. That's how the community looked after the youngest children, freeing up the individual parents to help out with the harvest.

At 16, I'd already discovered that the really little kids had not yet learned to despise me for being a cripple. They were just happy to have someone who would play with them.

So I knew that their stares had nothing to do with either my bad foot or my misshapen and useless hand. They were all wide-eyed about the stranger among us, and nothing else.

I hoped and inwardly prayed that Sally would return before the questions started. I felt ill equipped to provide answers to these young children right now. I didn't want my own bitter disappointments to injure their innocent young minds.

I turned my attention back to the man whose head rested on my right hand. His grip on my forearm was gradually releasing. He might have bruised me, in his urgent concern for the children.

He might be dying. Yet when he could speak, his concern had all been for our children and our injured people – not for himself. This, added to his lack of resistance as they beat him, persuaded me that he must be innocent of the murders of which he was accused.

Besides, the reason they suspected him was from finding him there bending over someone who was wounded but still alive. They never said they found any kind of cutting weapon on him, even though they'd said everyone who died had been sliced up.

This man who might have spent his last breaths worrying about our children and our injured people… he seemed like the last person in the universe who would deprive those people of their lives, or those children of their parents.

I heard Sally's careful footsteps coming down the stairs, and sighed with relief. "They've returned to the O'Dell farm, to check on the children," she said. "Between learning who brought it up, and the scolding that I just gave them, hopefully they'll be more willing to help you look after this poor man, Martha."

I looked up gratefully, and smiled at her. She was carrying pillows and blankets, and trying to balance those well enough around the substantial bulge in her middle to unlock the door of the cell that I currently shared with the injured prisoner.

"Thank you," I said.

She smiled back, and then worked her way through the door and closed it behind her. "You were right," she said. "They went much too far. They should have known better. I just hope that we're not too late."

She dropped the bedding on the end of the bench where I sat, and quickly separated the pillows from the blankets. She helped me prop up his head and shoulders (which took three pillows), and then we covered him with most of the blankets.

I kept one pillow, and a couple of blankets, for the bench-bed where I sat. I was afraid to leave him. I didn't know what might happen if nobody was there to help or protect him. Even with Sally's scolding, they might still be willing to let this poor man die… or even to encourage that to happen.

"Dusty should bring down a bucket and rags soon," she said. "If he doesn't, I'll go back up and get after him until he does."

"Thank you," I said again.

"It's what Ma would have done," she said. "I think in resenting that we've lost her, everyone has forgotten what she valued. She would be disappointed by this. She was the kind of person who would rather be remembered for her life, instead of her death. I've tried, but…" she sighed.

I reached out toward her, carefully making sure it was only my right hand that might touch her. "We have to keep trying," I said. "Maybe, someday, they will finally hear us."

She smiled at me, and then glanced at the silent, wide-eyed children. "So," she said brightly, "Who wants to play a game of 'button, button, who's got the button'?"

The children immediately began jumping up and down, and raising their hands and voices. "Me, Mrs. Thompson!" each said, in one way or another, reasonably loudly.

"Shh!" Sally said, smiling. "We'll need to be a little quieter than usual, because there's a hurt man here. But we can still have fun!"

My sister winked at me as she stood. She went to the door, unlocked it, let herself out, relocked it, and then shepherded the children back to the cell where we'd all been playing before Ike and Dusty had interrupted us.

I placed my hands on my knees, and waited. I glared at my useless left hand, as I had done countless times before. I could completely understand why nobody wanted it to touch them. I didn't like it much, either.

Perhaps because the nerves had been severed slightly above my left wrist when I was born, my left hand had never grown properly. It was about the size of a preschooler's hand. A few of the bones had grown a little more than that, making it even more misshapen than it might otherwise have been.

Its flesh was less full than a healthy hand of that size should have, and it looked bruised and swollen all of the time. The circulation to that mangled hand was poor, so it was often cold. I habitually kept it either pushed into a pocket or else folded across my chest under my other arm.

My crippled foot was much the same, except that its nerves had been severed just below the ankle instead of slightly above it. The severed nerves had not been noticed at my birth, but only several months later when I had trouble learning to crawl. By that time, it was too late for repair attempts to be effective on either my left hand or my right foot.

If we still had all the technology of our forefathers, something might have been done. Unfortunately, most of that technology was lost after the Great Fall. So there was nothing that the doctors in December could do, which would improve the functionality of my damaged hand or foot.

The sound of steps descending the stairs pulled my attention from my own troubles to the present situation. Dusty was coming down. He had a bucket, filled with rags that I could use to wash the prisoner. He brought bandages, too, which could be a blessing.

I stood, tucked my bad hand into my jeans pocket, and hobbled toward the cell's door. Dusty handed through the bandages, and I accepted them. That freed up one of his hands to work the lock.

I turned and hobbled over to the unoccupied bench. I placed the bandages on the end nearest to the injured man. As I did this, I heard the key turning in the cell door's lock behind me.

I turned to face my brother again. He held out the bucket, extending it through the cell's currently-open door. I hobbled back, and took it with my right hand.

"Thank you," I said.

He shifted his feet uncomfortably, and avoided looking at my face. "If he was worried about the children…"

"He also asked about Mildred and Hank. By name," I said.

Dusty winced. "Okay," he grudgingly admitted, "so maybe he wasn't lying. Do what you can for him."

Without another word, my brother turned and walked to the cell where Sally and the little kids were playing.

"Ike says that lunch is about ready," he told them. "After lunch, there won't be room here for all the little ones. We've talked to the schoolteachers. They will dismiss class for the oldest students, at least for today. The younger schoolchildren will take their lessons upstairs. So all of our littlest ones can be downstairs in the schoolhouse this afternoon. Some of the older girls will assist you."

"All right," Sally replied. "Thank you for letting me know. We're coming!"

Dusty walked back past the cell that I was in. "I'll have someone bring you … and him… something to eat, after everyone else is finished," he said as he passed.

"Thanks," I said.

I watched silently as he went past my cell and up the stairs.


	2. Alone

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

_**Note**__: I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": he belongs to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 2: Alone**

_Year 0092 month 2 day 8, continued…_

As Dusty's footsteps faded away, Sally began calling for the children to pick up the few toys that they were permitted to take into the jail area.

The usual howls of protest, the ones that are heard any time when children are asked to do anything resembling work, arose exactly on cue. However, those howls were quelled more quickly than usual by the expectations of lunch and an afternoon spent playing in the classroom in the schoolhouse's basement.

The schoolhouse's basement had more toys than could be brought to the jail. As a result, playing there was vastly preferred by the children. I understood their excitement. These dear, small souls were all too young to understand what had happened out at the O'Dell farm this morning.

Death was not something a child so young should have to understand, especially not like this. Tragically, several of these little ones would soon have to learn _exactly_ what it meant. "Soon" as in hours, for their losses would not wait for months or years. I prayed silently that each would be able to bear it, without it breaking them.

I also began to silently mourn that first, drastic step toward the loss of their innocence as they, all unknowing, began picking up their toys and blankets in preparation for lunch.

In a surprisingly short time, the children were rushing past the cell where I stood with a bucket of rags in my hand. I smiled at them, and at my sister as she waddled past last. She was carrying the two who were too small to walk. We nodded at each other as she passed.

When the sounds of their steps and voices had fully faded to silence, I sat in the middle of the unoccupied bench. I put the bucket on the bench beside me, and let go of the handle.

I looked at my cellmate. Somehow, lying there covered by blankets, he looked even more helpless than he had when he only wore his underwear. It seemed a strange contradiction, but there it was. Being covered by blankets like that, where one could not see how firm and well-developed his muscles were… when the blanket covered those details, it emphasized how lean he was. It made him look almost fragile.

I knew that I had done the right thing. The man needed someone to take care of him. I also knew it was highly unlikely that anyone else would be willing to look after him.

I'd done enough babysitting to have changed countless diapers. I'd bathed babies, toddlers, and even a few four- and five-year-olds... both boys and girls. I'd also washed and bandaged numerous scraped knees, barked shins, scratched arms, and the occasional black eye.

Somehow, this felt completely different. My arms folded themselves across my chest, with my useless left hand concealed between my right elbow and body. I sat there, simply staring at him. I couldn't seem to either move or think clearly.

I knew, generally, what needed to be done. Unfortunately, as soon as it became time to begin doing it, I felt lost and confused. I sat as still as a stone upon the sand.

Why?

I bowed my head as I pondered. My sand-colored hair fell forward, further screening my face. I was almost afraid to look at him.

It must be that he was so different.

Everyone in my family, and everyone else that I knew in the town, was much the same. We were all put together almost like a collection of squares and rectangles. We mostly ran big-boned. Broad shoulders, big rib cages, wide hips, and moderately thick and muscular limbs were the norm for everybody here... men and women, boys and girls.

Someone once said that God had made us to be farmers, building us large and strong and sturdy enough to endure long hours of hard work.

It didn't matter if it was us Fitzgeralds, or else the Woods, the Bakers, the Brookes, the O'Dells, the McCalls, the MacDonalds, the Hansens, the Thompsons, the Jensens, the Turners, the Epsteins, the Fitzpatricks, the Browns, the Smiths, or any of the others... with very few exceptions, we all had that same "sturdy" build. Some of us were more "raw boned," others more stocky. Some of us were taller; others were shorter. Regardless of other details, our skeletal build is nearly always large and strong.

The few exceptions tend to become outcasts as children, and move away to December when they grow up. As an outcast myself, I understood their inclination to live elsewhere.

This man was put together differently. Oh, he was easily as tall as any of us. In fact, he might be a little taller than several of our men. But, unlike us, he's made lean. He had reasonably wide shoulders, but, after that, his body tapered down. His body narrowed to his waist, and his hips and legs were lean. His arms were notably leaner and less bulky than I was accustomed to seeing, too.

Yet, somehow, this man lived within that badly scarred skin and that lean body. The gurgling sound had grown less, since the pillows propped him up, but it could still be heard. He was alive, injured and in pain.

Compassion won the day. I reached into the bucket, and started taking out the rags. I could cut the bandage strips with my pocketknife, to make them fit anywhere that he might need bandages.

I laid everything out neatly on that second bench, and then I took the bucket to the sink. I put it under the faucet and filled it about halfway with water. Then I returned to the unoccupied bench, and sat on the end nearest to him. His head was by that end.

I placed the bucket on the end of the bench beside where I sat, and reached for a rag. I dipped it into the water, and gently began to wash his face. I was surprised to discover, as I washed him, that his skin under the dirt, grit, and sand was even fairer than it had first appeared. I was surprised that he wasn't badly sunburned, from running around the desert with such pale skin.

I carefully washed his forehead, nose, the skin around his eyes, and his cheeks. I squeezed out the rag, and dipped it back into the bucket. When I'd done that, I began to dab at his poor swollen mouth.

Suddenly he moved, catching me by surprise. He held the rag to his mouth, squeezing it and drinking the moisture.

"No, that's not clean," I protested, but he had the rag out of my hand and into his. He kept a tight hold on the rag, pressing it against his mouth and trying to get more moisture from it.

I couldn't help wondering how long he'd gone without having any water. The only cup in the cell was chained to the sink, so I couldn't bring that to him. However, what he'd done gave me an idea.

I left the bucket where it was, and moved to where I could reach the clean rolls of bandage cloth. I started unrolling one, enough to soak up more water from the faucet. I doubled the place where I wanted to cut it, and held it between my knees. Then I pulled my knife out of my jeans' pocket, and used the edge of the bench to help me pry it open. Finally, I cut the loop of bandaging I held between my knees.

Some things are just plain awkward to do, when a body has only one functional hand.

I repeated the process, to make a second chunk of clean cloth. I took both pieces of clean bandaging I'd cut to the sink. Biting a corner of each to free up my hand, I turned on the faucet. I pulled the tin cup chained to the sink under the faucet, and rinsed it out. Thankfully, the chain on the cup was long enough to let it sit in the bottom of the sink, so I set the cup in the sink and filled it with water. I dropped the clean strips of cloth into the cup to let them soak up the water.

I turned off the faucet, and carefully lifted out one strip of soaked bandaging. I took it to him and brushed one end against his mouth.

"Try this," I said gently, as if I were speaking to an injured child.

He did, instantly. As soon as he had let go of the rag and taken the piece of clean bandaging cloth, I took the rag away from him. I left it on the bench by the bucket, and returned to the sink. I picked up the other soaked clean bandage, and took that to him.

It took a few trips of trading bandage pieces before his thirst was satisfied.

When he was done drinking, I slowly washed his ears and neck with a fresher rag. Just as I began to wash his right shoulder, his natural hand caught at mine. His eyes opened as far as they could, given how swollen his face was. I could see the shine of his eyes through his slitted eyelids, even though I could not distinguish the pale blue-green of his irises.

"Children?" he said, and then he coughed. Blood speckles appeared on his lips.

"Shh, please don't try to talk," I said. "You're hurting yourself when you do that."

I moved his right hand from my right hand and onto my left forearm.

"Squeeze my arm instead, ok? One squeeze for 'yes,' two squeezes for 'no.' Do you understand?"

He gently squeezed my left forearm once, and then whispered, "Three for question." That small effort made him cough again.

"Okay," I said. "I'll keep washing you as I talk."

He gently but firmly squeezed my forearm twice.

"I have to," I said. "You need it, and you're hurt too badly to do it yourself right now. I'll be as gentle as I can, I promise."

There was a long pause, but he finally squeezed my forearm once. Again, the pressure was gentle but easily detectable.

"Okay," I said. "Now that's settled... to answer your question. Someone did go check on the children. They're fine, though they're probably at least a little scared by everything that's happened. My eldest sister will take care of them this afternoon, with assistance from some of the older girls."

I began washing his natural arm as I spoke.

He squeezed my forearm once. Then he pointed around with his artificial left hand, as best he could with the way it was chained to his right, and to the floor. He squeezed my arm three times.

"Are you asking where you are?" I said.

One squeeze.

I was mildly surprised that he couldn't tell where he was just by the smell. The sharp tangy scent of the metal bars, and the dusty, gritty smell of the bricks and mortar that were made from the desert sands, were as strong as always.

Then I remembered that I'd grown up playing in this jail. To a stranger, these smells might not say as much. In fact, he might not even be sure which town he was in. Perhaps it would be best to begin there.

"You're in... well, I suppose the name of our village probably won't mean much to you," I said thoughtfully. "We're only a small farming village."

"Our nearest neighboring city is December, though it's over a hundred iles away," I added. "There's also an orphanage that's over a hundred iles away in a slightly different direction from December. We're not on a straight line between them, but about 45 iles off from a straight line. Most people have never heard of us, and only find themselves here when they get lost."

Three squeezes.

"This is the jail, under the Sheriff's office," I continued. "We also have a post office, a schoolhouse church, two cafe's, a bank, a gas station, a hotel of sorts over the saloon, a blacksmith &amp; stable, a feed &amp; seed store, a grocery store, and a mercantile store that sells just about anything you wouldn't find at a grocery store or else at a feed &amp; seed. We do have a Plant, but we mostly only use that to help us with water – especially with watering our crops and herds. We don't want the Plant to wear out, so we use it sparingly. That's why the lamps are outside of the jail cells, and use oil instead of electricity."

Three squeezes.

"Do you mean that you want to know more about our village?"

One squeeze.

"Ah, okay..." I said, not quite sure what else there was to tell. "It's not much of a town, but we have a lot of farms and ranches all around. Mostly farms, though there are three Thomas ranches and two goat ranches. We sell food to December, to get the double-dollars we need for other things."

Again, he gently squeezed my arm three times.

"Our Thoma are some of the finest around," I said, "and some of them get sold at fairly high prices to racers and the like. Our goats provide milk and cream to the dairy factories to make cheese and stuff. I can't imagine what else I could tell you. We're just a small village. Nothing much ever happened here, until today."

He pointed at me and squeezed three times.

"Who am I?" I said, wondering if I'd guessed his question correctly.

One squeeze.

"I'm Martha Fitzgerald," I said.

Three squeezes.

"There's not much to tell about me," I said modestly, but, in thinking it over, I realized it was true. I had to be one of the most unremarkable people on the face of the planet. Small wonder I was the most expendable person in the village. I'd existed for 16 years, but I hadn't done much living.

Three squeezes again.

"Well..." I began.

I wasn't quite sure what to say, so I started at the beginning. I told him how I was born early, as the result of an accident with a Thomas carriage. I explained how that caused my mother's death. I told him how my father had hated me, and drunk himself to death by the time I was five.

I told him how clumsy I am, always tripping and falling into things and getting myself scarred. I didn't say much about the number of times I'd been helped to fall, since that would probably only sound like I was either whining or else tattling.

I told him about how old Mildred would stitch me up after a fall where I'd been cut badly enough to need stitches, and how she was the one who would cut my hair for me.

I told about the times when I was a little kid, and I was taken to a hospital in December. I told how they broke my left hand and right foot in attempts to "fix" those parts of me. Both times, those efforts to improve the function of the bad hand and foot had only made them worse. There had been talk of trying again, but I was relieved that they hadn't.

I told him how my family had been so embarrassed by me that they pulled me out of school when I was eight years old. Ever since then, I'd been given my schoolwork in the evenings. I had to learn everything from hand-me-down textbooks and the teacher's notes. I must finish all the lessons each night, so that my homework could be taken back to the schoolteacher on the following morning.

Since then, during the daytime, I help out wherever I can. That's limited, with only one hand and with how slowly I usually hobble when I need to walk.

Over the course of the afternoon, as he kept squeezing my arm, I told him everything about me. I told him all about sixteen years of nothing.

As I talked, I washed him. Little by little, I got everything above his waist washed clean.

I found a soft spot in his lower ribs on his right side in that process. So I carefully wrapped bandages around his body at that point, to keep the broken ribs from moving and causing him further injury.

When he realized what I was doing, he helped. That was a good thing, because I don't think I could have bandaged him properly without his help.

When I began to move the blanket, so that I could wash his lower body, he caught the blanket's edge. He would not let me go farther.

"At least let go, so that I can wash your feet and legs," I said.

Two squeezes.

"I won't leave you, and I will continue doing my best to be gentle," I said. "I know I'm clumsy, but I promise that I won't hurt you on purpose."

Two squeezes.

Just as I was about to make further attempts to persuade him into letting me wash his feet and legs, I heard footsteps on the stairs again.

The steps belonged to Dusty. He brought the scraps that would serve as my dinner, along with some additional scraps for the prisoner. He also brought cups, so that both the prisoner and I could each have something to hold drinking water in… away from the sink.

As I helped the prisoner to eat and drink, Dusty told me how I would spend my evening and night.

"Mildred's in pretty bad shape," he said. "Since there was no school for the older kids this afternoon, you don't have any lessons to do tonight. We talked it over, and decided you should go to December and stay with Mildred tonight. Everybody else has family who needs them. Keep her company, and try to write down anything she says. We don't know yet if she will live or not, so if she wakes up and has anything to say, someone needs to write it down."

"What about this man?" I asked, gesturing toward the prisoner. "Someone needs to stay with him, too. He still needs looking after."

"Sally's husband, Jake, has agreed to stay with him," Dusty said. "A few of the girls who lost their parents today are staying at their house, and he says it's a bit too crowded for him. The girls can help Sally with the kids, at least for tonight."

"All right," I said.

Dusty nodded and started upstairs. "Come along, Peggy," he said.

I looked sadly at the prisoner. His calloused hand had been gentle on my arm all afternoon. He never bruised me, even though he'd squeezed my arm many times.

I leaned over to be nearer to his ear. "Take care of yourself," I said softly. "I have to go for awhile, you probably heard that. I'll visit you again tomorrow, if I possibly can. My brother in law, Jake Thompson, is coming to look after you. He's a fair-minded man. You should be safe with him."

He reached out and found my left forearm again. He squeezed once. I patted his natural hand, and then withdrew when he let go of me.

Jake came downstairs just then. I turned my attention to my brother-in-law.

"I got his upper body washed," I said, "and bandages around his ribs. I think some are broken, on his right side. He coughs when he tries to talk, so we worked out that he'd squeeze my forearm once for yes, twice for no, and three times for a question. He still needs his lower body washed, though."

"Thanks for letting me know," Jake said. "I'll look after him now. You'd best hurry after Dusty, so you don't hold up the wagon."

"I will," I said. "'Bye."

I hurried upstairs and out of the Sheriff's office as quickly as I dared. If I stumbled and fell, it would only slow me down. 

Ike was impatiently waiting with a Thomas-drawn wagon. He sat in the driver's seat, holding the reins. Dusty got up into the "shotgun" position, and I clambered into the back.

I sat down, somewhat relieved that I had no studies to do this evening... yet also somewhat disappointed. My recent literature, science and history lessons had been interesting, and I was curious what came next. Ah well, I could learn those things next week, or even the week after, as readily as I could learn them tonight.

Ike flicked the reins, and the Thoma began pulling the wagon toward December. As I'd told our jailhouse guest, we didn't use anything expensive, or requiring Plant use, any oftener than we had to.

Food and Thoma income only went so far. We tried to be self-sufficient, instead of borrowing ourselves into debt … or prematurely wearing out a Plant which we might not be able to afford to replace.

Thankfully, the empty wagon was light and Ike had chosen swift beasts. He'd probably traded the ones used for the prior trip, too, so this pair would be fresh instead of weary. The sands flew by as the suns sank deeper and deeper toward the western horizon.

Leisure to enjoy the sunset hours was a rare treat. I stared for all I was worth, until I overheard Ike say something to Dusty about the massacre.

They had driven Hank and Mildred to the hospital in a car. There had already been one lap of taking some of the less-severely mangled dead to the undertaker in December. After they dropped me off at the hospital and collected the men who had stayed with our injured neighbors through the afternoon, there would be additional trips to the undertaker.

That's when it hit me. Events of the day had happened so swiftly that the reality of the horrible tragedy, which had occurred this morning, had not yet fully sunk in. However, somehow, hearing that word and those details ... it abruptly became real, instead of a distant or abstract concept.

Several people in our village had died. They had been killed with a blade, sliced over and over again, until their corpses were little more than mutilated piles of flesh. Mildred and Hank might not live.

My little-big sister was dead, and Dusty was my only surviving brother.

They were all gone. I could never again tell them I loved them... I couldn't even say "good-bye" to them. Oh, there would be funerals, but the ones I loved couldn't hear me then. I could never hug them, as I'd often wanted to do but had been too bashful to try. 

Tears stung my eyes, and I did my best to muffle my sobs. The men driving the wagon were angry. For them, it was too soon for grief. It would be best not to attract their attention to myself, simply because I'd cried too hard. Yet my heart still ached.

I hurt for myself, because of the relatives and neighbors that I would never see again. I hurt for the kids who were newly-orphaned. Even though I knew that either kin or neighbors would take them in, and none would need to take a one-way trip to the orphanage, their loss was as great as mine. Our lives would never again be the same. 

I cried for the gentle injured man, who lay helpless in the jail where I'd left him with my sister Sally's husband. If they'd sent in any other man from our village, I would have resisted leaving. Jake Thompson was the one individual who might finish washing him, and bring him water when he needed it, but otherwise let him rest and recover. I hoped that was exactly what would happen. 

I also cried for Mildred and Hank. Both were currently in the hospital, suffering from serious injuries. So much pain... I hoped they would recover, but I knew it would be difficult for both of them tonight.

Dusty talked as if they were worried that Mildred might not live through this. I cried because I liked Mildred - she always behaved like a grandmother to everyone. I guessed that everyone would miss Mildred, if we lost her.

I spent the trip trying to watch the suns set, through tear-blurred eyes, and trying to get the crying out of my system. When I arrived at the hospital in December, I would need to be strong for Mildred. I wanted to cheer her up, or at least to help her feel peaceful. I did not wish to upset her.

It was a long, miserable, lonely trip. Ike and Dusty could not be appealed to for comfort. As usual, I cried alone.

Both suns were fully hidden behind the horizon by the time we arrived in December. Ike's Thoma were fast, as Thoma go. Yet they pulled the wagon by running, not flying. A car would be faster, but also more expensive. Our injured were already in the hospital. There was no need for the expense of a car just to haul Dusty and me in to keep them company tonight.

Seamus met us at the foot of the stairs to the hospital, to tend the Thoma and the wagon.

"Hurry up, Peggy," Ike complained, as I was getting out.

I tried. When I was tired, my bad foot hurt worse when I used it. I had to try to hurry, without stumbling. Not an easy task when tired, but I did my best.

Liam met us just inside, to take us to Mildred and Hanks' rooms. He also updated us on their condition.

"We have good news about Hank," he said. "He's already waked up, even though it was only for a short time. He recognized us, and he remembered what had happened. He was glad to be alive. The doctors have high hopes that he will recover completely. We still don't know about Mildred yet, though. She's so old, and she's lost a lot of blood."

"You said Hank remembered what had happened?" Ike asked.

"Yes," Liam said, and he looked a bit shame-faced. "Hank said there were two of them, Ike. One who attacked, and a second man whose coming spooked off the killer. In fact, he quotes the killer as saying something mighty rude when he saw the second man coming in the distance. The killer said he figured that if he left someone alive, the second man would stop to look after the injured instead of pursuing him."

"And is that what happened?" Ike said.

"According to Hank," Liam said, "that is exactly what happened. The second man did come. He dragged them into the house's shade, out of the worst of the morning's growing heat. He gave them water, asked for their names, and was starting to bandage them."

Liam shifted his feet, and then he looked down at the floor. "We might have arrested the second man, instead of the killer, Ike," he said softly.

Even as I heard the words, I knew in my heart that it was the second man who lay injured in our village's jail. He'd been too kind and gentle toward me to possibly be the killer Hank had described.

"Did Hank say anything of what the two men looked like?" Dusty asked. I saw him glance over his shoulder at me while he said it.

"He said the two looked a lot alike," Liam said. "Both were blond men, but the first was so pale a blond that his hair was nearly white. The second man's hair was more like ripe wheat in bright sunlight. The first man's eyes were cold and hard, like you'd expect from a killer. The second man's eyes were sad. Hank said that the second man cried over our dead, if you can believe that."

I kept quiet, knowing an "I told you so" was likely to get me back-handed. Yet this information made me feel even more convinced of his innocence.

The gentle man in our jail, who had taken such an interest in my life… somehow, he actually seemed like the kind of person who might cry over the deaths of people that he had never known. He'd been more worried about our children and our injured than about himself.

"He has broken ribs," I said softly.

"What's that?" Ike growled at me.

"He has broken ribs," I repeated.

"Who?"

"The second man," I said.

"She spent the afternoon with the prisoner," Dusty said softly, "washing him up. He was awake when I brought supper for them. I don't think he tried to hurt her."

Ike spat, and said something profoundly rude. "We'll take the wagon back," he said. "If the prisoner isn't the killer, then he should probably be here at the hospital. If Peggy's right, he may need more healing than she can give him."

"All right," Liam said. He'd brought us to Hank's room.

"Dusty, you stay with Hank," Ike directed. "Liam, take Peggy to Mildred's room, and then we'll start back toward home."

"Will do," Liam said.

Liam looked at me, tipped his head in the direction he wanted to go, and started walking. I hobbled after him as quickly as I could.


	3. Patients

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**: _I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": they belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 3: Patients**

_Year 0092 month 2 day 8, continued…_

My bad foot was starting to hurt even when I wasn't walking on it. Today had been very draining, which made it feel extraordinarily long. It had also required more fast walking than was usual for me.

On a more normal day, I could mostly walk at my own pace without annoying anybody. Circumstances had not permitted that, today. The tension and extra effort to hurry had made my legs and feet more tired than usual. When my bad leg and foot got tired, they hurt even when I wasn't standing or walking. 

I hoped that when I got to Mildred's room, I would be able to sit. Since I was wearing jeans and not a skirt, I could rest the ankle of my right leg up on my left knee without raising any eyebrows. Raising my foot up like that would make it throb less.

I followed Liam until he gestured to an open doorway. I looked in, and saw Mildred lying on a bed. I nodded at him, and limped in. The smells of blood and various antiseptic cleansers were stronger in her room than they had been in the well-scrubbed hallways.

Mildred looked so frail... I knew she was old, but I had never thought of her as frail before. She was always so full of life, laughter, and stories whenever I'd seen her. She was rarely still, but instead baking, or waving her hands to emphasize something in one of her stories, or else hugging somebody. 

Now she was so _very_ still! I could see her shallow breathing, the only movement she made. Her age-lined face looked almost translucent, and far too pale. Even her lips were colorless. I had seen pictures, so I knew that she used to be a redhead in her younger years. Now her hair was all white, and it laid there, spread limply on the pillow around her face, instead of tied back into its usual neat bun. 

Her eyes were closed. There was an IV tube stuck into her left arm, on the far side of the bed. Beyond the bed was a wall with a currently-dark window in it. I could see bandages on her arms, and I could tell by the wrinkles that there were other bandages under her hospital gown.

Blankets covered her lower body, concealing any bandage-wrinkles that might be there. 

I hurried to her side as fast as I could. It was a purely instinctive reaction. I stumbled, and nearly fell about the time that I got there. Fortunately, I was close enough to catch myself on the chair already positioned beside her hospital bed.

I got into the chair awkwardly. It was such a huge relief to sit down again! I propped my right ankle up on my left knee, and then I turned toward her. 

"Oh Mildred," I said softly, while trying not to cry, "I'm so sorry you've been hurt! I'll stay with you now. You're not alone. Lots of people love you, and we are all hoping and praying that you'll get better. Me too. Please, hold on. Don't leave us."

I reached out and took hold of her hand with my good hand. Then I rested my head on her bed, beside her shoulder. My forehead brushed against her shoulder, but I wouldn't lean on her. I didn't want to cause her any more pain. 

I heard Liam's footsteps move away from the door. I closed my eyes and prayed for her. I must have dozed off for a while, because I woke up when I felt her move.

I raised my head, just enough to look at her. She was breathing raggedly, and trying feebly to move her hands over her head.

"Mildred," I called to her. "It's okay, you're safe now. It's only a bad dream."

I took hold of her hand again, and kept calling her name.

Finally she said, "Martha?" It was barely a whisper.

"Yes, that's right," I said softly. "It's Martha. I'm here. You're safe, now. It's over."

Her eyes opened only a little, just enough to look at me. She squeezed my hand. Her grip was weak and shaky.

"It's good to see you, Martha," she said. "Of all your siblings, you're the one who's the most like your dear mother. It's a blessing to see you, sweet child, after..."

Her words had come as faint whispers. She closed her eyes.

"It's okay now," I said softly.

I squeezed her hand gently, and then released it. I noticed a pitcher and a cup on a small table by her bed. Standing and checking, I saw that the pitcher had water in it. I poured some water into the cup, and then held the cup to her mouth.

She opened her eyes and drank it all. She also drank every drop from a refill. Then she smiled a little, and said a very soft "no" when I reached toward the pitcher to get her a third helping.

I sat down and took her hand again.

She closed her eyes again.

"Are the children all right?" she asked.

"I'm sure they're fine," I said. "The eldest students were given the afternoon off from their studies, so the younger students were upstairs in the schoolhouse. The little kids got to play in the schoolhouse basement, all afternoon. You know what a treat that is for them."

Mildred smiled. "Yes, I do," she said. "How is Hank?"

"He's here in the hospital, too," I said. "The doctors have high hopes that he will recover completely."

"That's good," she said softly.

After that, she was quiet for a while.

I sat silently, just holding her hand. I was willing to allow her to rest or sleep as needed.

"Is _he_ okay?" she asked, in so soft a whisper that it could barely be heard.

"Who?" I said.

"The second man," she said, still whispering. Her eyes were still closed.

"If it would help you," I said, "you can tell me what happened. But you don't have to, if you don't want to."

"I think… I want to," she said weakly.

"All right," I said. "I'm listening." I squeezed her hand again, careful to be gentle about it. I still worried about causing her additional pain.

She smiled slightly, and then relaxed. "It really is over now, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Thank God," she said. Her impulsively spoken prayer came out almost like a sigh.

I heard footsteps approaching in the hall. I turned and saw Joe, one of our town's deputies. I must have slept for hours, if there had been time for the Thomas wagon to get home, collect Joe, and then come back again.

I beckoned to him with my expression and a tilt of my head. When he came in, I nodded toward the pad and pencil sitting on the table by the pitcher of water.

Mildred opened her eyes, and saw him as he picked up the pad and pencil.

He nodded at her, and she smiled briefly at him before closing her eyes again.

I was glad that Joe had come. It would be very difficult for me to balance the pad on my knees well enough to write legibly. Joe had two hands, so he could balance the pad better.

Besides, I didn't want to let go of Mildred's hand.

She took a deep breath, and then sighed. Her eyebrows drew together, as if she was concentrating to remember, or having to work on speaking. Her words still came faintly, much more like whispers than like her normal speaking. Her eyes remained closed.

"I was playing with the children in the house," she said weakly. "I thought I heard someone scream. I tried to distract the children, at first. I thought that maybe someone had an accident, and suffered an injury, out working in the fields. Such things happen."

The deputy started writing, taking down her statement. He did that very quietly, so he did not disturb or interrupt her. Joe was a quiet man most times, anyway.

Mildred's weak voice sounded sad. I squeezed her hand and then let go long enough to get her some more water. She smiled and whispered a "thank you," without opening her eyes. I sat by her bed again, and again took her hand in mine.

"When I heard another scream," she said, "I told the children it was time to play 'hide and seek.' I told them that they must not come out unless an adult that they knew came to find them."

She sighed. "The second scream had sounded like a different voice, which had me very worried," she said. "Two different people screaming like that… I knew something must be badly wrong. I told the children to hide really well, and instructed an older child to hide with each younger child. I think that most of them knew it wasn't a game this time."

"Children are often smarter than we give them credit for," I said.

"Yes," she said, and again a smile flickered briefly around her mouth before quickly fading away, "they are."

She sighed and continued, in that same weak near-whisper. "I came out in time to see a blond man, with what must have been a blade sticking out of his arm. He wasn't holding it, Martha. It came out of the side of his sleeve. He cut down George and Lenny while I stood there on the porch, trying not to scream – I didn't want to frighten the children, at least not any more than they already were. They might have come to me, to see why I'd screamed. They needed to stay hidden."

I squeezed her hand again, and wished I had a second normal hand that I could use to pat her shoulder. I wouldn't use my bad hand... people flinched away from it, and I'd learned long ago to keep it to myself.

I got her some more water, and then returned to my former position.

Joe stood silently waiting, holding the pencil and pad in his hands.

"I stood there, too afraid to move at first," she said.

I could hear and feel regret in her softly spoken words.

"My hands were over my mouth," she continued. "Sam, and a few of the other men who were still standing, raised their harvest sickles and tried to fight against him. But fighting didn't do them any good. He cut them down, too."

I didn't know what to say or do. I sat silently listening to her words, and to the sound of Joe's pencil writing on the pad.

"I started running away from the house," she said. "I hoped to draw his attention away from the children, or else get away from the direction that he was moving. Hank saw me, and ran toward me. The first man, his head turned. He briefly looked at us, and then he looked past us. At that time, he said something so ill-mannered that I won't repeat it."

I smiled. Mildred considered ladies above such things as rude words, and tried to discourage any girls she knew from using such language. She would never dream of using profanity herself, not even to repeat what someone else had said. I squeezed her hand affectionately again.

"After the rude word, he said, 'Him, again!' followed by more terribly rude words," Mildred continued. "Then he looked at Hank and I, for we had reached each other. He said something like, 'If I leave you two vermin alive, he'll stop to help you. By the time he's finished, I'll be long gone.' Then he came at us, cutting us badly but not quite killing. After that, he ran away."

Joe frowned as he copied her words onto the pad. 

"I'm so sorry," I said again, and again I gently squeezed her hand. I hoped it felt reassuring to her.

I felt her squeeze back, weakly. "It's not your fault, Martha dear," she said in almost her usual way... except that it was still so weak and faint. "Shortly after that man left, the second man came."

"What did they look like?" I asked, unable to keep that question to myself any longer.

"Their faces were almost the same," she said. "But their hair and eyes were different. The first man had very pale blond hair, cut short. The second man's hair was a deeper blond, almost golden, and it stood up farther from his head – almost like the bristles of a broom."

Mildred smiled at her own words, or else at an image that they made in her mind. I gently squeezed her hand again.

"The first man's eyes were about the color of the sky at twilight," she said. "The second man's eyes were so gentle... he was crying as he passed our neighbors who had died. His eye color wasn't fully blue, nor yet fully green, but a shade somewhere in between. The second man checked each of our collapsed friends, in case someone might still be alive. Hank was moaning, so he came quickly toward us. I saw all of these things because I had turned my face in the direction where the first man had glared when talking of another man coming."

Joe continued silently writing down her words.

I squeezed her hand again, not knowing what else I could do (without interrupting) to let her know that I was still paying attention.

"When the second man came to us," she said, "his tears were still dripping from his face. He asked what our names were. Hank said his name. He told Hank, 'Glad to meet you, Hank, though I wish it were under better circumstances.' When I told him my name, he asked if I liked to be called 'Milly' ... nobody's called me that since my dear husband died. I said yes... he said, 'Nice to meet you, Milly,' and shook my hand all gentleman-like."

Her weakly spoken words were coming more and more slowly, the longer she talked.

"Maybe you should rest now," I said. "We want you to get better, not wear yourself out."

Joe frowned over the pad at me, but he said nothing.

I wasn't sure if she heard me, since she didn't respond. I squeezed her hand again.

"He said he'd get us into the shade by the house, and do what he could for us, before going for help. We thanked him," she said. Her words began to come out even more slowly. "He did exactly what he had promised us, or at least… he began to."

She was quiet for few breaths, and then she spoke again.

"He gave us each some water from his own canteen," she said. "He dragged first Hank, and then me, into the shade beside the house. I think he put some bandages on Hank, since he was bleeding badly. Poor Hank had tried to get between the knife-man, and me, to protect me. So he probably got the worst of it. Then the second man came back to me. I think he meant to bandage me, too."

"That's when Ike and a few of the other men showed up," she continued. "They yelled and cursed at the second man, and I fear they were beating him. I tried to tell them not to hurt him, that he was helping us. I guess they couldn't hear me over their own shouts."

Her voice was growing weaker, and had faded almost to a whisper.

"After that, I must have passed out," Mildred said. "Everything went dark. The next thing I knew, I woke up here."

"They did beat him," I said sadly, "but he's alive. I think they mistook the second man for the killer. Hank also spoke of the second man. They're bringing the second man here to the hospital, also. So he should be okay, after awhile, too."

"I'm glad he will be taken care of," she said, her words coming even more faintly. "He seemed a good lad. Thank you for listening, Martha. It helped to tell it, this once. I don't think that I shall ever speak of it again."

Joe finished copying her words, and put the pencil into his pocket. He looked at her, hesitated, and then he patted her shoulder. After that, he turned and walked away.

"It's over now, and you and Hank are both alive," I said gently. "That's what matters."

"And the young man who helped us," she said. Her voice faded into a whisper as she spoke those last few words.

"Yes," I said, "him, too."

"I think I can rest, now," she whispered. "Good night, Martha. Thank you for coming to visit a weak old woman."

"You're not weak," I said gently. "You're wonderful."

She smiled and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. She relaxed again, except for breathing.

I rested my head by her shoulder again. I don't suppose it was long before we were both asleep again.

...

_Year 0092 month 2 day 9_

The suns had risen when I awoke. I think the brightness in the room is what wakened me.

I sat up and looked at Mildred. Her hand, still in mine, was too cool. She was even paler than she had been when she spoke during the night.

"Mildred?" I said softly.

She was too still.

It took me the space of several heartbeats, before I could fully realize that she would never wake again.

I let go of her hand, bowed my head and cried.

I was still crying when Dusty came into the room, to check on Mildred. But, for that, he came too late.

"Why are you crying, Peggy?" he asked.

"We've lost her," I said. "She's gone."

"Oh no," he said, very softly.

He came to the side of her bed, and looked at her. I looked up to see tears in his eyes… tears that he might never admit had been there. He cleared his throat.

"She was old, and had been hurt very badly," he said huskily. "Did she ever wake up?"

"Yes," I said, trying to restrain my own tears. "She said the same things that Hank had said. There were two. The first was the killer. The second man looked for survivors, and tried to help her and Hank, until Ike and others arrived. Then they grabbed him, and you know the rest. Joe was here when she told about it, and wrote down everything she said."

"So it _is_ the second man that we have," he said slowly. He sighed.

After taking a deep breath, he added, "We brought him. He's here in the hospital now, if you want to see him. They operated on him during the night, and set his broken ribs so that they will heal properly. And so those broken edges won't continue cutting into the bottom part of his lung. The doctors say that he's going to recover completely, but he'll be sore for a good long while. Just like Hank."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I was too angry to say anything appropriate, if I let myself open my mouth. What they had done to him was so completely unnecessary!

I couldn't help thinking that if they'd taken care of Mildred, instead of attacking the second man, she might still be alive. I was also angry that they'd done something so cruel while the children were huddled in the house, and probably terrified and needing comfort.

There had been enough people hurt by the other man, without my own friends and neighbors and kin beating up someone who'd only tried to help. I clenched my jaw in an effort to hold in the torrent of words that were building up in my throat. I dared not speak any of it, at least not right now. This was neither the time nor the place for an outburst.

I stood up, hobbled to the door, and then paused to look back. Dusty still stood at the side of Mildred's bed, staring at her empty remains.

Several heartbeats passed in silence, before my brother sighed and turned toward me. "I'll take you to the second man," he said gruffly.

Dusty led me through the hallways to the room that the second man shared with Hank. A curtain had been drawn between them, but I pushed it back. I believed that Hank would be perfectly content to share his room with the man who helped to save his life. Maybe he'd even be glad of that chance to see how he was doing.

Bob was currently sitting with Hank. He sputtered at me as I finished pushing back the curtain.

He said, "Peggy, what do you think you're doing?"

"Giving Hank a chance, the next time he wakes up, to see how the man who helped save his life is doing," I said defiantly.

"And what makes you so sure he's this 'second man' instead of the killer?" Bob snapped. "We might have just wasted our town's money saving the life of a murderer!"

"I know he's the second man," I said, "because of what Mildred told me last night, just before she died." My voice broke at the last word, so I shut my mouth.

"She's dead?" Bob said softly, and looked past me to Dusty.

Dusty nodded.

"Oh," he said, much more softly. In fact, he sounded a little shaken. "I'm sorry."

I nodded, and found a chair. I pulled it between the two beds, but nearest to the second man's bed. I rested my good hand on his natural hand, and then waited to see when he would wake up.

Various people from home came and went, mostly visiting Hank. They would glance at the second man, and look curious. Those looks changed from curious to sad or pitying or else guilty, when I told them what Mildred had said about him. But nobody else stopped to keep him company.

I wondered if they all felt too guilty. Even people who hadn't been there, yesterday, might have reacted in exactly the same way as the men who arrested him. The expressions on their faces were a loud, if silent, testimony to that fact.

I stayed with him. Nobody much cared what I did anyway, unless they wanted me to do something for them. The loss of friends and loved ones weighed heavily on everyone, too heavily for such minor annoyances as me being unavailable when they wanted a chore done that a one-handed cripple could do for them.

Several hours passed before the second man awoke. He opened his eyes just enough to see me, and then he tried to smile at me through his swollen mouth. He squeezed my hand three times.

"You're in the hospital in December," I told him. "You've been asleep nearly all morning. The doctors operated and set your ribs, so they can heal properly, sometime during the night. They say that you'll be sore until those ribs heal. In time, though, you should be fine. Hank is also doing well, and he's the one in the bed just over there." I tipped my head to indicate where Hank's bed was.

He squeezed my hand once, and then closed his eyes again.

He and Hank were both asleep most of the time. Yesterday had been a tense day. Between that, and how I hadn't slept well when keeping watch over poor Mildred, I grew tired again. I rested my head on the bed by his elbow.

I began to wake up when Dusty called, "Peggy!"

Before I could move, another voice spoke.

"Her name is Martha."

The voice was the second man's. I was surprised to realize that I'd already heard him speak enough to recognize his voice.

"I know that," Dusty said, "but everybody calls her Peggy anyway."

"Why?" the second man asked.

"It's the way she walks," Dusty said impatiently, "like she has a peg leg."

"It's not good to tease someone for the way she walks," the second man said softly, "and it doesn't show love, especially not when she's a member of your own town." His voice sounded sad as he finished those words. "Martha deserves better than that."

I remained still, but tears welled up in my eyes. Nobody had ever stood up for me like that, at least not where I could hear them; not for as long as I could remember.

"Whatever," Dusty said.

My brother grabbed my shoulder and shook me. "Wake up," he said.

I decided it was time to act like I was awake. I quickly rubbed my face against the bed enough to brush the tears from my cheeks.

"What is it?" I asked sleepily.

"Time to go home," Dusty said. "Ike's leaving."

"I'd like to stay until they're both enough better to go home," I said. "Please, Dusty."

Dusty looked like he might say no, but then the second man added his own request.

"She's good company," he said softly, "for me... and for Hank, too."

"But she'll get behind in her schoolwork," Dusty said.

"I'll catch it up," I said. I gently squeezed the second man's hand once.

"Whatever," Dusty said. "I'm going to get myself some dinner."

I watched my brother walk away, and prepared myself inside to spend the next few days in that room with the two convalescents.

...

_Year 0092, month 2 day 11_

Both Hank and the second man were pronounced well enough to leave the hospital, two days later. Both will still need to rest and recover for a few weeks. But, at least from now on, they can be taken care of by friends and family in our homes instead of needing the more expensive care of trained doctors and nurses.


	4. Return

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**: _I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": he belongs to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 4: Return**

_Year 0092 month 2 day 11_

The trip from the hospital back to town was uneventful.

I sat cross-legged in the back of the Thomas-drawn wagon, in the flat part, between the two injured men. I felt like my rear end was bruised, from spending so many hours in those none-too-comfortable hospital chairs. The long bumpy ride in the wagon didn't help that feeling at all.

I hoped that the ride was more comfortable for Hank and the second man than it was for me. However, from the manner in which they grimaced when the wagon was jostled by a significant bump in the road, I suspect that it wasn't.

They each lay on makeshift mattresses made of blankets. More blankets covered each of them from their shoulders to their toes. As we traveled, I gently patted their shoulders with my good hand from time to time. I spoke softly with them about the weather and other unimportant things, also. I tried to think of amusing things that I could say… things that might cheer them.

Both were awake, but kept their eyes closed because of the bright morning sunlight. They would smile or grimace by turns, depending on if I'd said something amusing or if the wagon had bounced in a manner that caused them pain.

The wagon finally arrived in our town, and stopped near the Sheriff's office. The place where the wagon stopped was also right across the street from the bank.

Two of Hank's kin were there, waiting for him. As soon as the wagon stopped, they helped him out of Ike's wagon and toward one of their own. Hank would be going to his daughter's house, and staying there until he felt well enough to return home and take care of himself. If his wife hadn't died two years ago, he might have gone directly home.

It had taken a lot of pleading on my part, but Dusty had finally agreed to let the second man stay in one of the unused bedrooms at our house. Only Dusty and I would live there, now. All of our brothers and sisters were either married, and living in their own houses, or else killed in the massacre.

It just hadn't felt right when I heard someone say that the second man could stay in one of the inn rooms at no charge. The idea of him being all alone, above that noisy saloon while he was trying to heal, just seemed all wrong. He should at least be in one of our houses, with someone to look after his needs.

Since Dusty spent most of his time at the Sheriff's office, I would be the only one at home. Having a house-guest wouldn't have much effect on my brother. After he finally agreed, Dusty was kind enough to bring all of the second man's belongings from the Sheriff's office and put them into the room where he would be staying. That included his strange leather clothes with the 1001 buckles and straps.

Nobody else had offered to take care of the second man, or even assist with caring for him.

I imagine that Hank might have offered, if he were fully recovered. But Hank still needed help himself, before he could extend assistance to anybody else.

I suspect that the reason nobody else had offered had to do with the need to tend relatives, both living and dead.

We were all deeply grateful that the murderer had been driven off before he might have come into town. Among other things, this meant that none of the children had been slaughtered. However, it also meant we had many newly orphaned young people who needed homes. Relatives and neighbors had to decide who would adopt these children.

Ike and Jane, for example, who had no children of their own, would be adopting the children of our dead brothers. They were trying to decide which house they would live in, and adjust to the switch from having no children to abruptly becoming parents of five.

Surviving next-of-kin needed to find the money to pay the December undertaker for the autopsies and preparations to bury their slain loved ones. They also had to decide what to do with the possessions of the deceased.

Because I was the youngest in my family, and unmarried, I had no such responsibilities. Awkward as it was, I understood that I would be alone in taking care of the second man.

So when the wagon stopped, I helped the second man to sit up and get off of it. I pulled his right arm around my shoulders. Dusty was just coming out of the Sheriff's office when I helped our houseguest to get off the wagon. The plan was that my brother would also help the second man to walk to our house.

Ike flicked the reins to drive away. Up to that point, everything had seemed normal.

However, things were _not_ normal.

Gunshots were suddenly heard from the bank.

Ike, Dusty, and the other nearby townsmen drew and fired their own weapons.

I was very tired, both from not having slept well at the hospital and from all the jostling in the long wagon ride. At first, I wasn't sure if the gunfight was real or some strange dream. So I stood, as if rooted to the spot, too bewildered to act.

The second man immediately knocked me flat, and instantly rolled me onto my face. He quickly adjusted my left arm so that it was folded by my side against my ribs. That side faced the bank, and it meant that my bent left arm covered the part of my side where my heart and lungs are. He wrapped my right arm around my head, and, in the process, he wrapped his own right arm around my head, too. He lay on top of me while he adjusted my arms.

Then, still lying on top of me, he shifted his weight. I guess he was curious, and looking toward the bank to see what was happening.

Answering gunfire came from behind us, where Ike and most of the deputies were. It also came from nearly beside us, where Dusty was.

Nearly every man in town had been deputized at one time or another, usually to assist the sheriff in December when a posse was needed to hunt down a criminal who had run toward the desert. Ike often said that, as far as he was concerned, they remained under oath and should expect to act accordingly if there was ever any need.

So I wasn't too surprised that townsmen shot back at the robbers in the bank. The robbers might have been surprised, though.

I thought that I also heard gunfire very close - so close that it seemed to be coming from right over my head! But, surely, that was only my imagination. I'd never been caught in a real gunfight before, and it was ... alarming. That probably made it feel closer than it actually was.

It wasn't long before the gunshots stopped and everything went silent. I was surprised by how quickly things got quiet.

I could guess what had probably happened. Some dirty no-good bandits had heard about the massacre in our town, and that our sheriff and some of the deputies were going back and forth to the hospital and undertaker in December. They'd probably thought that they could rob our bank while he was away, and nobody would be around who could stop them.

Well, they thought wrong.

I heard Ike shout for the bandits to surrender. Their response was along the lines of how they might surrender if they received competent medical aid (but they didn't say it nearly that politely).

Ike effectively said they'd get whatever they needed, and the bandits agreed to surrender.

I could feel the second man relax, and lower his left arm. I thought I smelled smoke as his left arm came to rest on the ground beside me, but that must have been only my imagination. Why would he smell like gunsmoke? My imagination must really have been working overtime, to invent such things.

I hadn't thought I would be so frightened by a gunfight that my imagination would run that wild. However, it seems that I was.

The second man sighed, and then he rolled off me and sat up. "Are you ok?" he asked. He sounded sincerely concerned.

"I think so," I said, sitting up. "Are you?"

"I'll be fine," he said, and he smiled.

The days he'd spent in the hospital had worked a marvelous transformation on him. Oh, he was still bruised and his broken ribs would still take some time before they were fully healed. But his face was no longer swollen into misshapen lumps of flesh. His face was again shaped almost like a regular person's face, though there were still discolorations where he was bruised and a little minor swelling here and there.

I'd thought that he was reasonably handsome as I saw his face resuming its natural shape. When he smiled, however, even though his eyes still looked sad, he became the most beautiful person that I'd ever seen. I felt heat in my face as I smiled back.

"I'm glad you're ok," I said softly. "Let's go home."

He nodded and put his hands on either side of my waist. Then – while still sitting on the ground – he lifted me to my feet. He flinched and grimaced as he did that. It must have pulled on some of his sore muscles, or else his broken ribs.

I shouldn't have let him pick me up like that. Unfortunately, I couldn't undo what had already been done.

I carefully balanced myself, and then extended my good hand to him. He let me help him up to his feet. Then I pulled his arm back across my shoulders.

Dusty would be helping Ike and the other men with the bank robbers. Because of this, he couldn't help me get the second man to our house. Knowing that, I didn't wait for him.

The second man and I walked slowly toward the edge of town. Not far beyond that was the house where Dusty and I lived, and where the second man would be staying.

I tried to walk as evenly as possible. I didn't want to hurt him with my uneven gait. Although he could walk on his own, he was still very weak and prone to stumble if left to himself.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't get you a ride all the way to the house," I said.

"It's not a problem," he said. "I appreciate having a place to stay."

"Thank you for looking after me back there," I said softly. "I was so startled that I didn't do the smart thing and hit the ground immediately, as I should have. I hope that diving for the ground like that didn't hurt you."

"It's okay," he said. "I couldn't let them hurt you."

I stopped dead in my tracks, and turned my head to look at his face. He hadn't sounded like he was mocking me... could it be possible that he actually _meant_ that?

He looked puzzled. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I ..." I began, but then I didn't know what to say or do. I felt heat in my face again, so I looked at the ground while I waited for my heart to stop pounding.

Finally, I said, "It's nothing," and continued moving toward the house.

There had been an old woman who lived in a house just past ours, back when I was small. She hadn't owned a riding-Thomas. So the town, or else her family, had placed rocks large enough to sit on along one side of the road. They were spaced several paces apart, but they could provide a welcome reprieve.

I had frequently made use of those rocks, to sit down and rest my feet. I used them on this trip, too. The second man also seemed to appreciate the opportunities to stop and rest.

We arrived at the house only a little before noon. I carefully helped him up the stairs to the second-storey room which Dusty and I had agreed he should use.

"The upstairs restroom is just down the hall, to the right," I told him. "I'll go back down and get you something to eat."

"I can eat later," he said. "You don't need to go downstairs, not just for me."

"I'm thirsty," I said, "and I can only imagine that you must be thirsty, too."

"Doesn't the upstairs bathroom have indoor plumbing?" he asked.

"Yes, it does," I said, and then I realized what he was suggesting. "I'll see if it has any cups in it."

"Thank you," he said, and smiled.

I turned away quickly, and hobbled to the bathroom. I felt heat in my cheeks, again. Why was I blushing? Was it only because he smiled? I needed to stop that. People would get ideas.

... but he looked so _very_ handsome when he smiled!

I sighed and went into the bathroom. I rummaged through the cupboards. Somewhat to my own surprise, I actually found two cups on the upper shelves.

I rinsed them off and filled one with water. Then I hobbled back to the room where the second man waited.

"Here you are," I said, and extended his cup toward him.

"Thank you," he said, accepting the cup. He started drinking from it.

I hobbled back, filled the other cup, and returned. By that time, he'd finished his water.

"Was that enough?" I asked him. "I can get more, if you need or want it."

"I can get more, later, now that I know where," he said, smiling. "Thank you again."

"You're welcome," I said.

I tried not to think about how _very_ welcome he was becoming. I didn't want to blush again. But my face still felt hot, so I must be blushing anyway.

He set the cup on the small bedside table by the oil lamp, matches, and small wind-up alarm clock that it already held.

"May I ask something personal?" he said.

"Well, you can ask," I said. "I don't guarantee any answers, though, especially if it's _too_ personal."

He laughed. His laughter was brief, but it sounded genuine. "That's fair," he said. "Could I see your left hand?"

He extended his own left hand, as if he wanted me to put my crippled hand into his.

I blinked at him, surprised. "Nobody wants to touch this," I said, and pulled my left hand out of my jeans pocket. "It doesn't feel good."

"Does it hurt you, when it gets touched?" he asked.

"Not usually," I said, "but everyone who touches it has flinched away from it."

"Maybe they were just surprised," he said. "Please, may I?"

I stood there blinking for a short time, and then I drank my water. I put my cup on the table beside his, and then pulled the chair by the wall to across from where he sat on the bed.

"Okay," I said uncertainly.

I sat down and extended my misshapen, shrunken, swollen hand toward him.

"Thank you," he said softly.

He took a hold of my left forearm, so that my hand rested on his left forearm. Then he began to feel of my left wrist with his right hand. His calloused fingers were surprisingly gentle.

I flinched a little, just from being unaccustomed to anyone touching that wrist.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, looking and sounding concerned.

"No," I said. "I'm just not used to feeling anyone else touching that arm or hand. That's all."

He nodded. "Most people avoid touching my left hand, too," he said, "when they learn it's a prosthetic."

"It does look very normal," I said. "Does it feel as much like your right hand as it looks?"

"I can't feel through it," he said. "The hand gives me a sense of pressure, enough to keep me from breaking things. I can't feel heat or cold, rough or smooth, or anything else through it."

As he talked, he gently moved his fingers over my left wrist and hand. His expression looked like he was concentrating.

I was surprised that he wasn't acting disgusted, like everybody else did when they even looked at my left hand. Doctors don't like to touch that hand when I visit them, either.

"Have you ever thought of replacing it?" he asked.

"You mean like having a hook instead?" I said. "I'm not sure that would be much of an improvement."

He took my left hand entirely into his own right hand, and held up his left. "No," he said, "like this."

He spread the fingers, formed a fist and then opened it, and then he curled each finger individually against his palm. He demonstrated, with a few additional dexterous movements, how his prosthetic hand was as versatile as a normal hand.

"I might not be able to feel through it," he said, "but it is connected to my arm's motor control nerves. I can control it just like I control my normal hand."

I watched, fascinated, as every movement went smoothly. He had complete control of his artificial hand, wrist and fingers. 

"Something like that would be an improvement," I whispered softly.

"I thought it might," he said. "It would hurt, a lot, to remove this and replace it with an artificial hand like mine. However, it should heal, over time, and mostly stop hurting."

"Mostly?" I said.

"Sometimes there are 'ghost' pains," he said. "Even though your hand isn't there anymore, you will occasionally feel pain that seems to come from where the hand used to be. It shouldn't happen often, but it probably will happen."

I figured he would know. I thought about it, as he continued holding my left hand with his right, and feeling of it.

"I have some of that now," I realized. "The nerve is already cut, so that's probably what it is when my hand starts hurting for no apparent reason."

He nodded, and opened his fingers, releasing my hand.

"May I see your right foot now, please?" he said.

"Okay," I said.

I was curious. I swung my foot up so that it rested on the bed beside where he sat.

"Thank you," he said.

He lifted my foot onto his knee. He carefully removed my boot and sock, and rolled up my jeans' hem twice. Then he started gently examining my ankle and foot, in the same manner as he had done with my hand.

I winced. I couldn't help it. That area is always sore.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Should I stop? I don't want to hurt you."

"It always hurts," I said, "no matter what."

He looked at me, and his sad eyes looked even sadder. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

I shrugged. "It's just the way it is," I said.

"It shouldn't hurt all the time," he said, frowning.

"It hurts every time I step on it," I said, "and every time it bumps into anything. If I'm holding still, especially if I have it propped up, it usually doesn't hurt unless I've used it a lot and it's gotten sore."

He nodded, and then looked down and continued gently feeling over my ankle and foot with his natural hand.

After he'd felt it over, he said, "May I have a pair of your shoes? It can be an old, worn-out pair."

"Why?" I said, completely confused.

"I know a doctor," he said, and lifted his left hand. He looked at me, and raised an eyebrow.

"We can't afford anything like that," I said quickly, while I looked longingly at his exquisite prosthetic. I'd told the truth. We couldn't afford even a cheap prosthetic, though I couldn't help wishing it were otherwise.

"You won't have to," he said. "A pair of your shoes. Please."

"I ... well, I guess I can get you a pair," I said uncertainly.

"Good," he said, and smiled.

I moved a bit more quickly than usual, to hide my face from him. I could feel the heat increasing in my cheeks, which told me that I was blushing again.

I picked up my boot and sock, and hurried across the hall to my room. I put the sock back on, and took off the other boot. I put away the boots I'd worn today.

I rummaged through my shoes and boots. I only had five pairs, all hand-me-downs. I chose the boots that were the most uncomfortable to wear. I hoped that nobody would notice, if I never wore those boots again.

I didn't really expect anything to come from giving him my boots. Still, it was a kind and generous thought he had. As far as I knew, nobody else had even considered fitting me with a working hand or foot.

I hobbled back to the room he was in, boots in hand. "Will these do?" I asked. "They never fit quite right, but always pinched some at the heel and toes."

"They're perfect," he said, reaching for them. "Thank you."

I gave him the boots. "You're welcome," I said. "My good foot is kinda big, isn't it?" I observed uncomfortably.

"That just means you have a good under standing," he quipped, smiling.

The second man's duffel bag, containing his belongings, rested on the floor nearby. He turned to put my boots into it.

It took a few heartbeats for me to "get" his pun. When I caught on to what he'd said, I groaned and rolled my eyes. 

When he finished retying his duffel bag, he reached out his left hand toward me again. "May I hold your right hand for a moment, please?" he asked.

I frowned, puzzled, but extended my right hand.

He took my right hand, flashing a brief smile, and then placed my right hand flat against his left. He arranged our hands palm-to-palm, and stretched my fingers against his. My palm was as wide as his, but a little shorter. My fingers were shorter than his, too.

He traced the shape of my right hand against his left, using his right hand. He touched the end of each of my fingers, and also the places between my fingers where they attached to my hand.

"That should do," he said softly, almost as if speaking to himself.

He looked up at me, for I was standing while he sat on the bed. He extended his hands, letting my hand return to its place at my side.

He said, "Thank you."

I shrugged, again feeling heat in my face.

"I'll let you rest, for now," I said. "I'll be in the room right across the hall, if you need anything."

"Thank you, Martha," he said, "for everything."

"You're welcome," I said.

I picked up my cup from the bedside table, and hobbled across the hall. Just as I was sitting on my bed and putting the cup on my own bedside table, I heard a knock on the door downstairs.

"I'll get that," I said, loudly enough for him to hear.

I got up and hobbled into the hall. Through the open doorway of his room, I saw that the second man was still sitting on the bed. I waved at him as I passed. He waved back, and smiled at me again… and, again, seeing his smile made my face feel hot.

Stairs were always a challenge for me. Stairs had been involved in nearly half of the accidents responsible for my various scars.

So I held tightly to the railing with my good hand, and quickly yet carefully worked my way down the stairs.

I was surprised to see Joe's wife and eldest daughter on the porch, when I opened the door. Edith Brooke was carrying a bowl with two plates upturned over it, and the handle of some kind of serving utensil sticking out from under the plates. Her eight-year-old daughter, Bertha, carried a plate with a cloth over it. Wisps of steam arose from both, but the early afternoon breezes stole those wisps away before their scent could reach me.

"Hello," I said to them. "What can I do for you?"

"We brought lunch for you and the second man," Edith said.

"Oh, thank you!" I said. I opened the door wider, and moved back out of their way.

"Sally Thompson called all of our town's ladies to her house yesterday," Edith said as she stepped through the doorway. "We all agreed to take turns cooking meals, so that you can focus on just taking care of him. It's also a small thank you, and apology, to him. We'll keep bringing food for as long as he's here."

"I'm sure that he will appreciate this," I said. "My cooking isn't as good as yours. Thank you, very much."

"Where is he?" Bertha asked, looking around.

"Upstairs," I said.

Edith glanced down toward my feet, and I felt heat in my face again.

"Why don't we take this up to him now," Edith said. "You and he can eat, and we'll keep you company, and then we can take the dishes home. That should save somebody an extra trip to return the dishes, later on."

She smiled in a friendly manner, so I nodded. I didn't know what else to do.

So up the stairs we went, and a slightly awkward – but very tasty – lunch followed.

He was still sitting on the bed when we arrived.

"This is Edith Brooke, and her daughter Bertha," I said. "They were kind enough to bring a lunch for us."

He stood up and shook hands with each, saying the usual polite nothings that people say when they meet. However, he sounded more sincere than most people do under those circumstances. The Brookes responded in kind.

I didn't hear everything they said, because I was quickly hobbling to other rooms. I brought two more chairs into his room, one at a time, so that everybody could sit down comfortably without anybody (except the second man) needing to sit on the bed.

They had brought biscuits and a gravy that was thick with chunks of Thomas meat. It was Edith Brooke's specialty: the dish that everyone always hoped she would bring, whenever there was a potluck. She frequently took other recipes to the potlucks, but her biscuits and Thomas gravy were everyone's favorite.

I went back downstairs and got forks and spoons, and then returned.

Edith was kind enough to put biscuits on each plate, break them open, and then ladle the thick gravy liberally over them.

She led us in a brief prayer of thanksgiving, before we started eating.

He finished his portion, and then looked hopefully toward the bowl ... which still had a reasonable amount of gravy in it. Edith smiled, and gave him a second helping.

She, and sometimes her daughter, asked him questions while we ate. Bertha was both young and a little shy, so she didn't say nearly as much as her more talkative mother did.

Edith was just trying to be friendly. She wasn't known for being a gossip, nor for being excessively nosey, nor for endless prattling on about herself. Most of her questions were about things that he might have seen while wandering in the desert. She did not ask him why he traveled, nor anything particularly personal beyond inquiries about his health.

She received nods, headshakes, or shrugs from him in response. He didn't pause in his eating. I wondered if he was that hungry, or if he just didn't want to answer the questions any more fully.

If she asked a question which could not be answered with merely "yes" or "no," he would briefly answer precisely what she had asked. He spoke politely, though without any elaboration.

There was only one exception: one pair of questions that he answered more fully.

"From what Hank and Mildred told us," Edith said, "the killer seemed to know you. Do you also know him?"

He was very still for the space of a few heartbeats. He glanced at me, and then he looked toward her. He nodded, and then he continued eating without saying a word.

"Was it a coincidence, or were you following him, when you came here?" Edith asked.

For a moment, he was again very still. Then he finished chewing his current mouthful, and swallowed. He didn't look up from his plate.

"He killed someone very special to me," the second man said, very softly. "I've been following him, one way or another, ever since."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I said.

Edith and Bertha said the same.

After that, Edith talked about how grateful we all were that he had come and helped to save Hank's life. She carried on a bit about how there was no telling if the killer would have stopped short of slaughtering the whole town, if the second man hadn't come and scared him away.

The second man didn't reply as she spoke. Instead, he just continued eating and staring down at the plate of food on his knees. Yet his cheeks gradually changed from pale to pink to rosy. From the change in the color of his face, we all knew that he'd heard every single grateful and flattering word that she had said.

He did full justice to the food they brought, eating steadily until his second helping was done. I ate a little more slowly, but also finished my own portion. I like her biscuits and Thomas gravy, too.

When we had both finished eating, Edith said, a little bashfully "I hope you liked the biscuits and gravy. It was made from a family recipe, one that most people in the town here seem to enjoy."

"It was very good, thank you," he said, and smiled at her.

I felt a strange twist in my stomach, as if I didn't like it when he smiled at her.

Suddenly I was terribly confused. Why shouldn't he smile at her? He was a kind, friendly person. I shouldn't be surprised that he would smile at people. He probably smiles at most of the people he meets. I certainly had no reason to dislike it when he did.

What was the matter with me today?

"Yes," I managed to say to Edith, around the lump I felt in my throat, "thank you."

"Well, I suppose we'd best be going," Edith said. She still looked at him. "I hope you recover swiftly, though of course we'll be glad for you to stay as long as you like."

"Thank you again," he said. He stood up and shook hands with both Edith and Bertha again, and then he sat down.

"I'll see you to the door," I said to them.

"Thank you," Edith said.

She smiled at me, which was unusual. Most of the time, she just ignored me. She never took it far enough to qualify as a snub, the way some people did, but she rarely acknowledged me as she had just done.

After I had thanked them again and shown them out, I put the forks and spoons into the kitchen sink. Then I returned upstairs.

"Martha," he said.

That was all. Just my name.

"What can I do for you?" I hobbled to his doorway, and looked in.

"Please come in and sit down," he said softly. "They reminded me of another question I'd like to ask you."

I limped into the room. I dragged the two chairs between the bed and the door against the wall, one at a time. Then I sat in the third chair, the one that was closest to the foot of the bed.

"What is it?" I asked nervously.

"In the hospital," he said, "when I asked how everyone was doing, you told me about Hank, the children, and the other townsfolk. You never told me how Mildred is doing."

He was right. I hadn't. I didn't want to talk about Mildred, not yet. It hurt too much.

"Please," he said gently, "tell me."

He was sitting on the bed, with his hands on his knees. He looked at me attentively.

I looked down at my own knees, and took a deep breath.

"She asked about you," I said. "She asked about the children first, and then about Hank, and then about you." I blinked, but failed to keep the tears in my eyes instead of running down my cheeks. "Joe walked in. I asked her what had happened, and she told us. Then she asked about you, again. It was almost the last thing she ever said."

I looked up at him, and saw him blink once. Then he closed his eyes, and tears fell down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he said, and bowed his head. "I'm so sorry! I failed her. If I'd only come sooner…" His hands clenched into fists.

I reached out to him, placing my right hand over his. I'd deliberately reached for his natural hand, the one that could feel it.

"That wasn't your fault," I said. "You could not possibly have known –"

"I knew what he was," he said. "I should have gotten up earlier, moved faster, and come sooner. If I had…"

"You're only human," I said, and squeezed his hand. I felt him flinch, which puzzled me, but I continued talking. "You can only do your best, just like the rest of us."

He sat still, quietly crying, for what felt like a long time. I didn't look at the clock, so I don't know exactly.

Finally, he spoke very softly. "Will there be a funeral?" he asked. "They will bury her, right?"

"There will be a funeral tomorrow morning," I said. "It will be for everyone who… died… a few days ago. We'll bid them all farewell together, since we lost them all together."

"Do you think anyone would mind if I went, too?" he asked.

"I'm sure you'd be welcome," I said. "Like Edith said, if you hadn't come, we might not be here to bury them."

"Thank you. I… should probably try to rest, now."

"Of course," I said. "I think I'll try to nap, too, until someone comes with dinner."

I patted his hand, and then went back to my own room. I lay down, and was soon asleep.

...

**Note**: _for anyone unfamiliar, a "Thomas" is an odd birdlike creature, which bears some resemblance to an ostrich with a turkey's head. It is found on the planet where the Trigun adventures occur. Thoma are used as livestock, saddled riding beasts, and as wagon-pullers. So "Thomas meat" would come from the bird, not from anybody who chanced to have that name. By strange coincidence, I don't recall anyone named "Thomas" in any of the canon stories... -mischievous grin-_


	5. Evening

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**:_ I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": he belongs to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 5: Evening**

_Year 0092 month 2 day 11, evening_

Short naps in a chair at a hospital just don't work as well as a full night's sleep at home in one's own bed. After a few days of being sleep-deprived in that manner, along with worrying about the people who were there as patients… I was beginning to feel like something that the cat had dragged in.

The nap didn't cure all of my fatigue, but it did help.

I woke when I heard the second man moving through the hall, passing my door. It sounded like he might be gasping. I couldn't tell, just from the sound, if it was from physical pain or if he was crying again.

I sat up, yawning. I was still sleepy. But if he needed anything from me, then I wanted to help him. I put my feet on the floor, stood, and peered into the hallway. I saw only his back as he disappeared into the bathroom.

He closed the bathroom door very softly. I felt heat in my face, again. It was so thoughtful of him to try to be quiet, in case I might still be asleep! With Mildred gone, nobody else in this town (except, perhaps, Sally) would ever think to be so careful just because of me.

I heard a knock on the front door, downstairs. I took a quick look into the mirror on the back of my bedroom door, to make sure that I was reasonably fit to be seen. Well, at least I could try to be as near to "reasonably fit to be seen" as _I_ could ever be.

I raked the fingers of my good hand through my short sand-colored hair, so that none of it was sticking out in a "bed head" effect. That look can be endearing on very small children, but, on anyone else, it only looks sloppy.

I wished for the umpteenth time that I had two functional hands which I could use to tend my hair. It would be so nice to wear it in a style other than "too short to get in anybody's way, but still just long enough to cover some of the worst facial scars."

I quickly tucked my shirt into my jeans, since it had gotten partly un-tucked as I slept.

Thankfully, I'd not spilled anything on myself during lunch. However, I did look pretty badly rumpled. I shouldn't take time to change now, not with someone already waiting at the door. Some things just take too long to do, when they must be done one-handed.

I probably should have changed into a shirt less likely to look so rumpled before napping, but I had been too tired to think of it at that time. I made a mental note to myself that I should dress suitable for receiving early-morning visitors before turning in tonight, just in case breakfast was included in the townswomen's plans.

I couldn't do anything about the dark grey smudges under my eyes. Those smudges were almost as dark as my eyes. The effect of the dark smudges under my dark brown eyes gave my face a mildly ghoulish look. I shrugged and turned away from the mirror.

I never exactly enjoyed seeing my own reflection, anyhow.

I quickly put on a pair of boots, and then carefully went down the stairs to greet whoever had brought dinner.

I opened the door to see Grace Jensen and her two eldest daughters, Opal and Ruby. The three whisked in past me toward the kitchen as I felt my stomach sink into my boots.

"Don't worry about anything, Peggy," Ruby said, with her usual condescending air, as they passed. "We'll get the table set, and bring the man down. You can just go sit down, somewhere out of the way."

When their backs were all turned toward me, I indulged in a grimace.

I had no problem with Mrs. Jensen. In fact, like Edith Brooke, she was a very fine cook. She didn't glare at me too often, and, most times, she simply ignored me without ever quite snubbing me.

I was grateful that she had come to provide us with a meal. I thought I recognized the scent of her Thomas-and-dumplings stew, which made my mouth water.

Unfortunately, at times, Opal had been among those who harassed me. She's three years older than I, and much prettier. However, her worst fault was that she was something of a gossip. She tended to repeat things best forgotten at particularly inconvenient times. That had occasionally resulted in others troubling me worse than usual, for a while.

Ruby has always been one of my most persistent harassers. She is possibly the prettiest girl in the whole school, and she knows it. She's both vain and arrogant. Even though she's shorter than I am, she always manages to look down her nose at me. Although she's nearly two years older, she's only one grade higher because of where our birthdays fall. That has often made her very difficult to avoid.

I must admit that I was somewhat relieved when I was taken out of school. It meant that I'd see Ruby and her cronies a lot less often. However, our town is so small that I'm not able to avoid her entirely.

It's not unusual for her to motivate others to trip me or throw things at me. Thrown insults were bad enough. Stones, or handfuls of unwanted lunch foods, could be particularly unpleasant. She had incited others to throw all of the aforementioned at me on numerous occasions.

Something in the attitudes of those two sisters, as they glanced toward the upstairs of the house, suggested to me that they found the second man intriguing… just as I do.

I defiantly worked my way back up the stairs. When I reached the top, I saw him coming out of the bathroom.

His eyes were red-rimmed, but he still managed a sad-eyed smile when he saw me.

"Good evening," he said. "I found a small, plain, empty box that would be very helpful to me if I could have it. May I?"

He gestured to indicate its size, and then gestured through the open doorway into what was currently his room. The small box in question lay in the middle of the bed.

"Sure," I said. "You can use anything you want to, in there."

"The use that would help me most," he said, "would mean that you won't get it back."

"That was my brother's room," I said, "before he moved away and got married a few years ago. He … won't be needing anything he left behind, not anymore. Go ahead."

"Thank you," he said. He sounded more grateful than the small concession seemed to have earned.

"You're welcome," I said, shrugging and trying not to blush again.

"Who was at the door?" he asked.

"The Jensens. They brought dinner," I said. "They're setting it up downstairs."

I tried to be cheerful, for his sake. I tried harder than I might have done another time, because I could see from his eyes that he had just made that same effort for me.

Unfortunately, seeing Ruby Jensen walk into my own house had made me feel just a little bit sick. I could not completely suppress that feeling. Though, for his sake, I tried.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, as if he were studying my face.

I suddenly realized that he'd shaved off the whiskers that had grown while he was in the hospital. Had he just finished doing that, or had he shaved while I was napping? Either way, I thought it made him look better… even with several bruises still vivid on his face.

I guessed that he'd brushed his hair. Most of it stood straight up from his head, instead of sticking out in all directions as it had in the hospital and earlier today. Even with that unusual hairstyle, which I wouldn't exactly call flattering, I thought him very handsome.

I began to feel heat in my cheeks again, so I quickly looked down at his feet.

"I guess that means we're going downstairs, too," he said softly.

"Yes," I said. "You can lean on me, if it will help you. I'll need to keep my hand on the rail, like when we came upstairs earlier, so that I don't trip."

"Why don't we do it like this," he said, moving to my left side and extending his right arm, "so that we can help each other?"

I looked at his arm, surprised. From his arm's position, it didn't look like he meant to rest that arm across my shoulders, as before. In fact, it looked like... If he was suggesting we might link arms, then that would put my bad hand on top of his forearm – up where everybody could see it!

"Just to get down the stairs," he said gently. "I can hold the railing on the other side."

"Okay," I said uncertainly.

This man was full of surprises! His suggestion worked better than I could have imagined. Fortunately, the narrow stairway was wide enough for two to use it side by side. Because each of us held a rail, each could help steady the other. We got down the stairs without either of us falling.

Opal and Ruby came out of the kitchen just as we stepped off the stairway. I quickly let go of his arm, and stuffed my bad hand into a jeans pocket.

"Oh, you've already come down," Opal said. She looked and sounded both a little surprised and somewhat disappointed.

"We didn't know if Peggy could get you down without falling," Ruby said to him, with smooth sarcasm, "so we came to help you."

"Her name is Martha," he said firmly.

He stretched himself to his full height and looked straight down into Ruby's eyes. He shifted his feet slightly, planting them at his own shoulders' width. His expression was so stern that it was barely short of grim. He was more than half a head taller than she, which doubtless increased the impact of his stare (that was nearly a glare) on her.

"Oh, I know that," Ruby said with a dismissive gesture of her hand, "but everybody calls her Peggy. She's used to it. She knows we are talking to her, when we say 'Peggy'."

His posture, expression and stare remained unchanged. The fact that he had not relented and relaxed, accepting her excuses, was making her uncomfortable. She was beginning to sound just a little bit nervous as she finished speaking.

"They shouldn't do that," he said, "nor should you." His softly spoken words came in an intense tone that almost sounded dangerous.

"It doesn't matter," I said softly. I turned toward him just enough to touch his arm with my right hand.

"It _does_ matter," he said. He continued looking at Ruby with that stern expression. "Please apologize to Martha."

He adjusted his posture slightly. Somehow, that transformed his stance from a firm but polite request into a definite challenge. He radiated a displeasure that was nearly anger.

I don't know who was more surprised: Opal, Ruby, or myself.

Ruby's face flushed, and she looked as if she was about to say something angry. However, another voice spoke before she could.

"Did I hear voices?" Their mother, Mrs. Jensen, asked mildly as she came out of the kitchen. "Oh, good, there you are. Everything's ready. Come on in and sit down."

She was smiling, until she got a good look at us. When she saw how we were standing, and sensed the tension in the room, her smile faded away. She began looking confused.

"After she apologizes to Martha," he said in a gently polite tone, without shifting his intense gaze from Ruby, "we will be pleased to accept your invitation."

"Apologize?" Mrs. Jensen asked, bewildered. "What happened?"

"This fine young lady," he said, nodding at Ruby, "said something unkind to my friend. I have asked her to apologize. We are still waiting."

Ruby's angry expression began to fade from her face, as did the extra color in her cheeks.

"I'm sorry she did that," Mrs. Jensen said sadly, directing her words toward the second man. "I haven't raised my daughters to be unkind."

Then she turned her attention toward her daughter whose behavior had displeased the second man.

"Ruby, apologize," she said firmly. "Now."

"I …" Ruby swallowed hard, as if the words stuck in her throat. "I'm… sorry."

"Martha," he prompted her, speaking only slightly more gently than when he had first demanded an apology. Yet his voice and posture remained firm.

"I'm sorry… Martha," Ruby said shakily.

I looked up at the second man. I was only slightly taller than the end of his nose, so I had to look up a little bit to see his whole face.

He nodded at Ruby, and then he looked at me.

At first, I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Receiving an apology was something completely new to me. But then I remembered seeing it happen to someone else.

I looked at her, and managed to say, "Apology accepted." I hadn't expected those two words to be so very difficult to speak.

I looked back up at his face, wondering if I'd done it right. I saw the corners of his mouth move slightly upward, and he barely nodded. I relaxed a little.

"Now we can eat," he said, in a more relaxed and light-hearted tone. He turned his attention back toward Mrs. Jensen.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said hastily, "I'm forgetting my own manners. This is Grace Jensen, and her daughters Opal and Ruby." I gestured to each as I spoke.

He nodded at each. "Pleased to meet you," he said politely. But he didn't sound pleased, or at least not as pleased as he had sounded when I introduced the Brookes at lunchtime. He didn't offer handshakes to any of the Jensens, either.

"And may we know the name of your guest, Martha?" Mrs. Jensen asked. Her voice had the tone of a mother giving a gentle reminder.

I looked up at his face, again. "I…"

"Right now, I'm hungry," he said. His eyes twinkled merrily as he nodded toward the kitchen. "Something in there smells _very_ good."

Mrs. Jensen blushed, pleased by the compliment. "Well, I do know it's both impolite and unwise to keep a hungry man waiting!" she said, smiling, and led the way to the kitchen.

He insisted on holding and adjusting the chairs for each of us as we sat down. I noticed his face growing paler each time he did that first for Mrs. Jensen, then for Opal, and then for Ruby. I tried to tend my own chair when he came to it, but he shook his head at me.

"But it's hurting you," I said, so softly that only he could hear.

"I can't expect to help teach anyone else how to show love, if I don't set a good example," he said, equally softly. "Please, let me do this for you, and for them."

I looked down at his hands on my chair, and reluctantly nodded. If it really meant that much to him, I couldn't refuse. After I was seated, he took his own place at the table.

From that point on, dinner went much the same as lunch had. The main differences were that this time we sat at the kitchen table, and everyone was eating. The blessing over the meal had been a simple moment of silence, while everyone bowed their heads.

Mrs. Jensen and Opal did most of the talking, asking politely about things that didn't have much importance. As before, most of the time, he just kept eating without a pause. He would nod or shake his head or else shrug when he was asked a question, and continue eating.

Ruby was uncharacteristically silent. She occasionally glared at me, so I knew that she intended to make me pay for her embarrassment earlier. I cringed inside, knowing well that her breed of vengeance was likely to be highly uncomfortable for me.

When I looked away from Ruby, I was surprised to see the second man looking at her. He could hardly have missed noticing her expression, since she was still glaring at me when I looked away from her.

He looked thoughtful, and continued eating silently.

When he finished eating, he said, "Thank you. I don't believe that I've ever had any other Thomas dumpling stew that would compare to this. The rice was good, too."

Mrs. Jensen blushed. "Why, thank you," she said.

He smiled. "This dinner has the added blessing that it's a gift of kindness and generosity." He looked pointedly at Mrs. Jensen, and then at Opal, and finally at me, before returning his attention to Mrs. Jensen.

It took a few heartbeats before I realized that he had not looked at Ruby. I could almost feel her glaring at me, again, even though it was her own behavior this evening that had earned her that exclusion.

I resisted the temptation to look at her, from knowing what I was most likely to see. Maybe if she didn't see that I'd realized she was excluded from his compliment, she wouldn't do anything about it. She wouldn't want to draw attention to it, if it had been overlooked.

"Thank you, again," Mrs. Jensen was saying. "Though, in all honesty, it is also a gift of gratitude. We all appreciate what you did, and what you tried to do, for Hank and Mildred. We're thankful that your coming stopped the other man from killing any more people than he already had. And… we're sorry that some of our men mistook you for the killer, and hurt you because of that mistake."

He looked down at his empty plate and shrugged. "It's not the first time that's happened," he sad softly, "and it probably won't be the last. I will still do my best to live for love and peace, and hope to help others do the same."

"Love?" Opal said. She sounded almost hopeful.

"Yes," he said, still staring at his plate. "If everyone lived in a truly loving manner, then there would always be gentleness, kindness, courtesy, generosity, understanding and forgiveness. We could all live in peace, as people were meant to live."

"That's a beautiful thought," Mrs. Jensen said softly.

"It's what I believe," he said.

"I hope you don't mind if I share that thought with others?" Mrs. Jensen said.

"Please do," he said, finally looking up again, "but don't do that only because I said it. Share it because you believe in it."

"I will," Mrs. Jensen said. She smiled and reached out to touch his shoulder.

I saw him tense at her touch, and then relax. "Thank you," he said softly.

"You're looking a little pale," Mrs. Jensen said kindly. "We should probably go, and let you rest."

"I'll help you get back upstairs," Opal and Ruby said to him, almost in unison. Opal was just a little quicker, though.

"Martha can take care of me," he said, "but thank you for your kind offer."

"All right," Mrs. Jensen said. She turned toward her daughters. "Girls, get the dishes. We're going home now."

Turning to me, she said, "Dusty has night duty at the jail tonight, to watch over those robbers that they caught earlier today. He said that he drew the short straw, and he didn't seem too happy about it. At his request, I've brought your schoolwork for you. It's on the end of the counter there. Now you can work on catching up, as you're able."

She smiled and then added, "Mrs. Turner will bring you breakfast tomorrow morning. We can see ourselves out. Take good care of your guest, Martha."

"I will," I said. I meant it as a promise.

"Good night, then," Mrs. Jensen said. She smiled, and I smiled back.

"Good night," Opal said.

"Good night," I replied to both.

Ruby said nothing. She helped her mother and sister gather the dishes, and left with them.

When I heard the door close, I sighed in relief. The second man and I were still sitting at the table.

"I can help you get upstairs," I said to him, "If you want to go up and rest."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He folded his hands in front of him, resting them on the table, too.

"It sounds like you have schoolwork that needs doing, first," he said.

"I don't think I can get it all done tonight," I said.

"No," he said, and smiled. "But we should at least begin."

"If you want to help me, then that would be great," I said, "but I need to find the answers myself. I can't learn anything very well if I don't do most of the work myself."

His smile widened. "Agreed," he said.

I had the strange feeling that I'd just passed some sort of test.

I got up, hobbled to the counter, and picked up the folder of assignments. I put the folder on the table, and then hobbled to the bookshelf where the worn old hand-me-down textbooks were kept. I took two of those and held them against my body with my left arm, and then picked up a third. I hobbled back to the table, and started putting the books down there.

True to his word, he helped me study without giving me any answers. In fact, sometimes he asked questions about my assigned schoolwork that weren't in the textbooks. He made me find answers for those, too.

He had a knack for making the process of finding the answers fun, whether it was assigned questions or his own. I found myself wishing that our village had a schoolteacher like him, instead of the grumpy pair we had.

I also kept thinking about what he'd said about love and peace, as we studied. I agreed with Mrs. Jensen. It was a beautiful idea. It also sounded like how Sally had always described Ma, and like things that the preacher said on Sundays, or a lot of the stuff in the Bible.

Learning that he always tried to treat everyone well, simply because he wanted them to feel loved, made me feel strange. The unmistakable fact that he included me equally in this practice and philosophy was almost overwhelming.

I could easily get used to having him around. I found myself hoping that he might stay for a very long time.

When the suns started sinking low, and I noticed that the light was fading, I looked at our grandfather clock. He and I had been working on schoolwork for at least two hours.

I got up to wind the clock, since it was best to wind it up each evening. I opened the case, got the key, inserted it into the hole, and twisted it until it wouldn't go anymore. Then I took they key out, put it away, and closed the clock's case.

"I think I'm too tired to study anymore, tonight," I said. I wasn't exaggerating… or, at least, I wasn't exaggerating _much_.

"Okay," he said. "May I borrow this?" He held up one of my schoolbooks.

"Sure," I said, "but why?"

"I like to read," he said, "and I'm curious about what they're teaching people these days."

I laughed. "You're being silly again, aren't you?" I said. "You can't be that much older than I am. What are you… nineteen? Twenty?"

He looked down, and one corner of his mouth quirked upward. "I'm older than I look," he said softly.

"So you're really twenty-one or twenty-two?" I said.

"It's not important," he said through his lopsided grin, and shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. "Thanks for the loan."

"You're welcome to anything in this house for as long as you're here," I told him. "I'll persuade Dusty later, if needed, but I think he will agree. He feels pretty badly about his part in the way you were treated."

The second man looked at me very strangely for a moment, and then he visibly relaxed. "Thank you," he said. "I won't abuse your trust or your hospitality."

"Were you thinking about tearing the place apart?" I said, baffled. Somehow that didn't seem like something he would do.

His reaction and his words confused me, and I'm sure that confusion must have shown all over my face. I watched as one side of his mouth quirked upward again, briefly forming a lopsided smile.

"Be careful about saying things like that, Martha," he said softly. "It could be misunderstood."

I blinked, completely at a loss. "What do you mean?" I said. "I don't understand."

"You are in this house," he said gently, "and right now there's nobody else here to protect you. If someone mistook your offer of hospitality for… a different kind of offer, you could get hurt." He pushed himself away from the table. "Let's go upstairs, now. Me to my room, and you to yours."

While we talked, I had put the other books away. I gathered all the papers into the folder, and laid it flat across the top of the row of books.

He stood, holding the book in his right hand, and bent that arm in the same invitation he'd offered just before we came downstairs. I stood up and wrapped my left arm around his, as I had before, but this time without hesitating.

I kept pondering his words as we worked our way through the house, and up the stairs.

Halfway up the stairs, I finally understood what he was suggesting when he warned me to be careful what I said.

"Oh!" I said, and felt a lot of heat in my face, neck and ears. "I didn't mean it like _that_."

"I know," he said. I looked up at his face to see him smiling. "That's why I warned you."

"Thank you," I said softly, turning my face down and hoping that my blush wasn't too noticeable in the fading light.

We went the rest of the way up the stairs and into his room. I let go of his arm. He nodded at me and then sat down a bit heavily on the bed, beside the small box that was still sitting there from earlier. I watched him sigh and relax. He reached out and moved the small box to the floor.

"May I ask a personal question?" I said hesitantly, lingering just inside the doorway.

"You may ask," he said, looking up at me. His face shaped into that lopsided grin again.

"Why didn't you tell them your name, when they asked?" I said.

"While sharing the hospital room with Hank," he said, "I heard him tell what had happened. I heard his account of how he met me. I heard how he called me 'the second man.' I think this town is learning a hard lesson, because they mistook me for the killer."

I listened quietly.

"They might remember the lesson longer," he said, "and perhaps better, if they think of me only as 'the second man.' If they forget that idea, by replacing it with my name, they may forget the lesson that comes with it. If they don't know my name, it may help them to avoid making another mistake like that, with somebody else."

He'd been so quiet in the hospital that I'd thought he was either too shy, or else in too much pain, to talk about himself. But he must have been thinking, instead, at least part of that time. Apparently, he had decided to make himself into a symbol of our town's mistake, to help them learn from it.

He must really believe in love and peace, to do something like that.

I was amazed and deeply impressed.

"You…" I began, and then looked down before the heat I felt building in my face could cause a visible blush, "you told them I'm your friend."

"Yes," he said.

Something about the sound of the word made me think he was smiling. I risked a quick peek up through my bangs to see that he was. I looked down again.

"May I know your name, please?" I asked. "I won't tell anyone else, if you don't want me to."

"I'd like it best if you didn't tell anyone," he said. "My name is Vash."

I extended my right hand. "Pleased to meet you, Vash," I said, smiling.

He shook hands with me, and, when I looked at him, his smile was like both of the suns rising after a long and miserable night.

"I'm very pleased to know you, Martha," he said. It didn't sound like he was only being polite. There was a warmth in his blue-green eyes that I'd rarely seen before, except from either Mildred or sometimes Sally.

I felt a lot of heat in my face, but I couldn't look away from him.

"Thank you," I said softly.

He nodded.

I stood there shaking his hand and probably looking completely ridiculous for the space of several heartbeats.

Finally, I said, "Well, goodnight. Rest well."

"Thank you," he said. "You, too."

I smiled and let go of his hand. I turned and went through his door, through the hallway, and to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth somewhat absent-mindedly, because I couldn't stop thinking of him.

After I finished that, washed my face, and used the toilet, I returned to my own room. I closed my door and chose something that wouldn't rumple too badly as I slept in it, and that would also be suitable for others to see when they brought breakfast in the morning.

I would have to sleep with my bra on, even though that was less comfortable than taking it off. I sighed at that realization. It just took too darn long to wriggle into and out of the blasted thing, one-handed. I couldn't be sure that I'd have time to wrestle my way into it, if breakfast arrived before I had already put it back on. So, tonight, it would have to stay on. I sighed again, and began changing into the clothes I'd chosen for the night.

While I was changing, I heard him go down the hall to the restroom. I guessed that he would probably be doing the same things that I had just finished doing in there.

After I finished changing, I opened my door and lay on my bed. I could see through the open doorways that he had returned to his room and stretched out on his bed, too. I couldn't see his face, but he was holding still. I hoped that he was comfortable.

The last few rays of the setting suns slipped behind the horizon, and our rooms grew too dark for me to see anything further.

It wasn't long before I fell asleep, still thinking of him.


	6. Mourning

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**: _I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": they belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 6: Mourning**

_Year 0092 month 2 day 12_

When I awoke the next morning, the light coming into my window told me immediately that I'd slept in. Glancing at my clock, I saw that it was 7:28 am. I'd slept longer than usual by two full hours! My sleep patterns must have gotten more mixed up than I'd realized, from the days and nights that I'd just spent at the hospital.

Relieved that nobody was waiting for me to cook breakfast, I sat up and looked through my doorway, across the hall, and into the doorway of Vash's room. He wasn't in his bed. Instead, the empty bed had been neatly made.

A small package was on the bed, wrapped in brown paper. I was pretty sure that I recognized its size and shape as the box he'd asked to have last night. There was writing on the package that I couldn't read from where I was.

I got out of bed, and looked through my doorway down the hall. As anticipated, the bathroom door was shut. Listening carefully, I could hear soft noises of someone moving around in there. Once again, he was trying to be quiet in case I might still be asleep.

Turning back into my room, I hobbled back to my bed. I pulled at the blankets until I'd made them as neat and smooth as his were. After that, I picked up a comb and raked it through my sleep-disheveled hair. Then I put the comb away, and hobbled the few steps needful to reach my chest of drawers. From that, I pulled out a clean pair of socks.

I hobbled to my bed, sat down, and bit the socks where I had to in order to get them unfolded. When a body has only one functional hand, one is compelled to bite all sorts of things to fill in for the hand that won't work. When the clean socks were separated, I laid them out on the bed.

I would remove the dirty pair, and wash myself, after breakfast. If I'd waked earlier, as usual, I might have done that before breakfast. Unfortunately, I didn't know when breakfast would come. I didn't want to be half-undressed when it arrived.

I stood up and hobbled to my closet.

I pulled out my best dark-colored skirt and vest. My black dress was a hand-me down that was far too worn and faded to look right at a funeral. So the matching deep navy skirt and vest set, which Sally had given me for my birthday last year, would have to do. I laid those garments across the end of my bed, and turned back to my closet to pick out an appropriate blouse to wear with the skirt and vest set.

That's when I heard the bathroom door open, and a knock on the front door downstairs.

Other preparations would have to wait. Mrs. Turner's cinnamon rolls were worthy of respect, and I had no intention of leaving her standing outside any longer than she had to.

I hobbled into the hallway. I saw Vash coming out of the bathroom, and stopped in my tracks. In the imperfect light, that filtered through the various bedrooms and bathroom windows and into the hall, he looked wonderful.

He was freshly clean-shaven. He'd again brushed his hair so that it all stood straight up from his head, except for a few strands that fell down over his forehead. He wore loose-fitting slacks, nice shoes, a white shirt, and a dark vest. It looked like he might have polished his earring, too.

I hadn't meant to stare at him. When I realized that was what I was doing, I smiled and said, "Good morning. It sounds like breakfast is here."

"Then it must be time to go downstairs," he said, smiling. "And good morning to you, too."

He came to stand beside me. He offered his right arm, as he had last night. I accepted.

As several times before, I looked down to hide the blush that I could feel taking over my face. I wasn't used to being treated like someone who mattered. That left me feeling a bit flustered and unsure of myself… and, apparently, inclined to blush.

I didn't dislike the way he treated me. I just wished I wouldn't keep blushing about it!

We reached the bottom of the stairs without mishap, and I released his arm. I hobbled to the door, and then opened it.

"Good morning," I said.

"Good morning," Eliza Turner said. She was smiling.

To my surprise, she was followed by her son Fred instead of one of her daughters.

Fred is enough older than I that he was in the next grade up at school. I hadn't been able to figure out if he was terribly arrogant, or terribly bashful. He'd never joined other students in harassing me, but he rarely looked at me and he never spoke to me… nor, come to think of it, had I ever seen him speaking to any other girl.

I hadn't noticed it before, but Fred was put together a little more like Vash than like the squarer build of nearly everyone else here (including me). He was neither as lean nor as tall as Vash, but he had something of the same general shape. He was apprenticed to the local blacksmith, and his mother was a good cook, so his slightly slimmer build could not be caused by inadequate food or exercise.

"Come in," I said, smiling.

I hobbled backward, and pushed the door wide. I nodded to Mrs. Turner, and to her son.

"This is Eliza Turner, and her son Fred," I said, introducing them to Vash. Then I turned to them, and said, "I expect that you two already know who my house guest is, so that he needs no introduction?"

I was a little bit proud of myself for having managed to avoid mentioning Vash's name so smoothly. It had been one of the things I'd been pondering, the night before, as I drifted off to sleep.

"Pleased to meet you," was said, a few times. Smiles, nods and handshakes were exchanged all around.

As I led everyone to the kitchen, I realized that the house was cleaner than usual. Jane couldn't be responsible for that, since she'd be far too busy looking after her newly-adopted children. Dusty probably wouldn't have thought of it.

So it must have been Sally. Somehow, she must have found time to come by and make the place tidy. It must have been done before Vash and I arrived here, after we left the hospital. It was a relief to have the house looking so well, though I wondered at myself for not having noticed it sooner. I must remember to thank her, the next time I saw her.

I thought that I could smell Thomas-sausage and cheese, which made me curious about what was in the large bowl that Fred carried. I was reasonably certain that the pan his mother carried held her cinnamon rolls, since I could smell the cinnamon.

When we reached the kitchen, I learned that Mrs. Turner and Fred had indeed brought more than just her famous cinnamon rolls. She'd also brought Thomas-sausage and cheese omelette to share with us.

As with the Jensens' dinner last night, it looked like they had brought enough to eat their meal with us. Unlike the others, the Turners hadn't brought any plates or other dishes. But I didn't fault them for that. They brought larger portions, and they'd walked farther than the others. Unlike the Brookes and the Jensens, the Turner's farm was on the far side of our village.

I hobbled quickly to the cupboard, and nearly jumped when I started to turn back toward the table. Vash was standing close behind me, holding out his hands. I smiled at him and gave him four plates. I began reaching for cups, glancing over my shoulder to see that he had already walked to the table and begun distributing the plates.

When I turned again, after getting down four cups and placing them on the counter-top, Mrs. Turner was standing half beside, and half behind me.

"I'll take those," she said cheerfully. "You get the napkins and tableware."

"Okay," I said. "Thank you."

Following her advice, I hobbled the two steps needful to reach the drawer that contained our napkins. I chose four of the nicer ones, with muted fabric patterns that would feel appropriate to a pre-funeral breakfast.

I heard a shoe scuff the floor right behind me. I turned to see Fred standing by my elbow. When he saw me turn, he held out his hands. I gave him the four napkins I'd selected. He nodded and turned back to the table.

That left only eating and serving utensils. I opened their drawer, and pulled out the required number of forks, knives and spoons. As I finished counting out what would be needful for eating, Vash was at my side, smiling and reaching out a hand. I gave him the tableware, and then I reached back into the drawer for a serving knife, spatula and spoon.

I turned back toward the table, feeling strange. Everyone had helped, even Fred whom I barely knew. Vash was almost finished with distributing the eating utensils, so everything was ready. It had happened so quickly, and I had done almost nothing.

Fred was starting to sit down, but Vash gave him a look that stopped him. The second man walked to where Mrs. Turner was approaching a chair, and held it for her.

"Oh, my," she said, "thank you! You're so polite."

Vash smiled at her, and then he looked at Fred. He raised one eyebrow, just a little.

Fred's cheeks turned a little pink, but he followed Vash's example. He came and held my chair for me.

I felt awkward as I sat down. "Thank you," I said.

Fred nodded, and then he went and sat down in his own chair.

Mrs. Turner said the blessing. She used a standard, brief expression of gratitude for the food and the table-mates. Then we all began eating.

This meal was much quieter than the other two had been. That didn't surprise me too much, since I already knew that the Turners were generally quiet people.

The food was good, and disappeared in due course.

"Thank you," Vash said. "Everything was very tasty."

"It's the least I could do," Mrs. Turner said. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

She rose and began clearing the table.

Fred stood up and went to the sink. He put the stopper over the drain and began running water into it. He looked around, found the dish soap, and added some of that.

Mrs. Turner began putting the dirty breakfast dishes into the sink.

"I hadn't expected you to do the dishes," I said, surprised. I felt embarrassed that I hadn't washed the eating utensils from yesterday's lunch or dinner.

"We helped make them dirty," Mrs. Turner said, "so it's only right that we should help to clean them."

"Thank you," I said. I didn't know what else to say or do.

Mrs. Turner smiled, and then nodded at me, before joining her son by the sink. Fred turned off the water, and started scrubbing. His mother wiped the dishes as he finished cleaning them, and then she put them away. She must have paid attention when I was getting them out, because she was putting everything exactly where it belonged.

Fred finished washing dishes, wiped off his hands, and then started back toward the table. His glance strayed to the book shelves, and he changed his course when he saw the old school books and the folder of papers on top of them. He walked there, instead of back to the table.

"Are you still doing school?" he asked.

He glanced at me very quickly, and then he looked at the books again. He ran one finger along the spine of each school book, as if he might be reading their titles.

"Yes," I said. "Dusty brings the assignments home each evening. I do the work, before turning in. He takes the work back to the school master on his way to the Sheriff's office the next morning."

"Good," Fred said, still looking at the books. "You were always smart. It's good that you can keep learning."

"Thank you," I said.

I felt ashamed that I didn't know how Fred did with his studies, so I couldn't return his compliment. When I had attended school, before my family pulled me out eight years ago, I'd spent most of my time trying to avoid attracting the attention of my persecutors.

"I hope that you're doing well with your own studies?" I said. It felt inadequate, but I couldn't think of anything else to say to him.

"I do ok," he said, shrugging.

Mrs. Turner finished putting away the last of the dishes.

"We should go now," she said, "to let you get ready for the funeral. Will you both be attending?" She looked at Vash, and added, "We'd all be honored if you came."

"I'll be there," he said. He bent his neck in a way that was almost a bow instead of only an ordinary nod.

"That's good news," she said. "You're both welcome to sit with my family, if you wish."

"Thank you," I said. "That's very kind of you."

She smiled, and then turned to her son. "Fred?" she said.

He turned away from the bookshelf, and nodded at her.

"I'll show you to the door," I said.

"Thank you," Mrs. Turner said.

I walked with them to the front door, and opened it for them.

"Farewell, for now," she said.

"See you later," I said.

Fred only nodded, before he and his mother both turned away. They carried their bowl and pan, that he'd washed after they were emptied of both omelette and cinnamon rolls.

I closed the door and turned around. Vash was standing there, looking thoughtful.

"He's right, you know," he said. "You are smart, and it is good that you're still learning."

I felt intense heat spreading over my face, so I quickly looked down at the floor. I shrugged, unable to think of anything to say.

Just before the silence grew awkward, Vash said, "I suppose we should go upstairs, and finish getting ready to go?"

I nodded. I looked up enough to see him offering his arm again, so I accepted it. We went upstairs, and he also escorted me the extra two steps to my bedroom's door.

"Thank you," I said.

"Any time," he said, smiling again.

…

An hour later, I had finished getting cleaned up and changed. We left the house together.

He had put on some round-lensed amber sunglasses that were made in an unusual style. I refused to comment, because I couldn't think of anything complimentary to say about them. Those sunglasses were almost as strange as his "1001 buckles" leather outfit.

After we got down the porch stairs, he said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to try walking without leaning on you. I need to know what I'm able to do."

"All right," I said. "I'll stay close, though, in case you need me. I don't want you to overdo, and grow worse."

"Thanks," he said, and smiled. "I'll try really hard to do it on my own, though."

I smiled back, and then quickly looked down. Why oh why did my face have to get so hot _every time_ the man smiled in my general direction? It was so embarrassing!

"You didn't mind leaning on me yesterday," I said.

"Yesterday, I didn't know that each step you took hurt you," he said. "I don't want to make that worse."

"I don't mind helping you," I said. "Though if you're worried, it doesn't make much difference whether someone leans on me, or not. It hurts about the same, either way."

"You're very kind," he said. His tone sounded approving.

I felt heat in my face again, so I looked down again.

Under his left arm, he carried the package I'd seen on his bed when I woke up. He'd said earlier that he wanted to take it to the post office as soon as possible. I had adjusted our planned time to leave the house accordingly.

It took us a long while to walk past the two fields that separated my house from the village. Thankfully, each resting-stone was wide enough for both of us to sit down on it at the same time.

I'd planned the time to leave with my own slow gait in mind, and had allowed for extra time in case he got out of breath. Because of this planning, we didn't need to hurry.

Occasional breezes kicked up dust and grit. The smell wasn't quite the same as the wild winds on the open desert. These small gusts just smelled like dirt.

"Post office first, if it's open," he said, when we reached the town buildings.

"It should be," I said. "It's a little over an hour before the funeral will begin."

"Good," he said.

I showed him where the post office was. I kept him company while he went in, fished a few double-dollars out of his pocket, and then paid the postage for the package.

Hannah smiled at him as she put his package into a pouch. It was ready to go to December, and then get sent out from there to wherever he'd addressed it to go.

We left the post office, and stood briefly in the mid-morning sunlight. He nudged me, and handed me a few double-dollars.

"What are those for?" I asked.

"The brown paper that wrapped the package," he said.

"That's probably more than it would cost to replace it," I said.

"Keep the change," he said, and smiled.

I accepted the money, and put it in my pocket. I looked downward while waiting for my suddenly-too-hot face to cool. Again.

I wondered what was in that package. He'd asked for the box, and paid for the paper. If he'd wanted anything else from the house, I believe that he would have asked. I figured that whatever was in the box must be something he'd taken out of his bag.

I was debating within myself as to whether or not I should ask him anything about the package, when he spoke.

He said, "Which way to the graveyard?"

I pointed in the needful direction, and said, "It's about as far out of town that way as my house is in that direction."

I gestured in the direction of the house. If the town were a center point, and the farms, ranches, and graveyard around it were a circle, then my house would be about 1/3 of the way around the circle from the graveyard.

"Wouldn't it have been quicker to go across the fields, instead of coming completely into town?" he asked.

"You wanted to visit the post office," I said.

"I knew you were smart," he said, smiling.

I felt heat in my face, again. I looked down and shrugged.

"We should arrive just about in time, if we start now," I said. "There won't be as many resting-stones that direction, though."

"We didn't use all of them when we came," he said. "I think we can manage."

I looked at his face, a little concerned. He'd gotten out of breath a time or two, and his face had gone pale and somewhat grayish, just before we reached the nearest resting stone. Thankfully, after sitting a bit, his color had gradually returned and his breathing had evened out.

"You were hurt pretty badly, only a few days ago," I said. "It's better to be late, than for you to push too hard and hurt yourself again or else undo what's barely healed."

He patted my shoulder with his right hand. "You don't need to worry about me," he said. "I'll live."

I didn't say anything, but I did look at him. I could feel my face showing that I wasn't quite buying everything that he was trying to sell to me.

He smiled, tipped his head toward the graveyard, and began walking. "I'll try to be good," he called over his shoulder.

I hobbled after him a little more slowly than I needed to, from concern for him. As I'd expected, he slowed his pace so that we could walk side by side. I made sure that he used each resting-stone between town and the graveyard. We arrived just as people were gathering.

Mrs. Turner must have been watching for us. She was the first to notice us, and she waved. We went over to where she had several chairs arranged into two neat rows.

Neither Vash nor I had brought a chair with us. Given his difficulty in only bringing himself, I don't think it would have been possible for him to bring a chair that distance. I'd wanted my hand free, so I could give him help if he needed any.

"We'd be honored if you'd sit with us," Mrs. Turner said. "We brought extra chairs, in case you might want to join us."

"Thank you," I said, "that was very kind of you."

I looked up at Vash, and he nodded. He was sweating, even though it wasn't hot yet, and his face had gone pale again. I sat in a chair near the middle of the front row, and Vash sat beside me.

Mrs. Turner sat on the other side of me, and Fred sat on the other side of Vash.

Soon others began noticing Vash, and wandering toward him.

He still looked good, at least to me. Since he'd washed up before breakfast, he was still wearing the slacks, vest, shirt and shoes that he had been wearing earlier this morning. Those were probably the best clothes he had, since his bag was only so big, and it could only carry so much stuff. His shoes and slacks were dusty from our walk there, but it still showed that he'd made an effort to dress well.

I hadn't noticed until now, but he'd also put on a holster with a silver revolver in it. The holster hung low on his right thigh, suggesting that he wanted it ready to draw quickly if he perceived a need. I'd not seen him reach that direction while we walked, though he had rested his hand against his injured ribs a few times.

People came and talked to him. He greeted everyone who came to him, shaking hands and saying something polite and noncommittal to each. If anyone asked him about himself, he changed the subject… most often by expressing his sorrow over the lives lost.

After a while, everyone arranged themselves to listen. The preacher spoke first. After he finished, several different people from the town took turns. Everyone remembered one or more of the people who had died, and nearly everyone thanked the second man for chasing off the killer, and for helping Hank and Mildred.

Vash was crying over the dead, at least as much as anyone else was. He'd only known Mildred for a few minutes. All the others who would be buried today had died before he arrived. Yet he still cried over every one of them.

I was also crying. I'd lost two brothers and a sister in that massacre, along with many neighbors and my friend, Mildred.

I hadn't known, until the preacher read the list of names, just how many people had died.

I wondered how we would manage the harvest, with so very many gone. Pondering that predicament was a welcome distraction from my grief, when I could manage to focus on it. I didn't manage to distract myself with that thought for long, though. Many of the speakers had fond recollections of Mildred, and I could not make myself ignore those – even though they hurt terribly. I _wanted_ to remember her.

When everyone had finished speaking, the preacher returned to say a prayer and to repeat the names of everyone who had died. We all cried and cried, mourning those whom we would never see again.

The undertaker in December must have been very busy. Every one of the deceased had been decently coffined. The men of our village must have been very busy this morning, and perhaps last night also, digging all of those graves. That might explain why the service hadn't been planned to begin any earlier than it had.

Vash and I walked around the graveyard with everyone else, to where each casket temporarily rested beside the open grave waiting to receive it. The caskets were all closed, which wasn't surprising given the manner in which they had died.

Vash and I were still near the Turners as we walked all around the graveyard. When we finished, Mrs. Turner turned toward us.

"There's a pot luck at the church," she said. Her voice was a little hoarse and shaky, and there were many tear streaks on her face. "The school's closed until after the harvest."

"Why did the schoolmaster send me so much catch-up work, if school's closed?" I wondered out loud. It was a new distraction from my grief. I hoped that it would occupy my mind better than wondering about the harvest had done.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I hadn't meant to say that out loud. Of course you wouldn't know! At least I understand why the school's closed. Anyone old enough to attend school must be old enough to help, at least a little, with the harvest, since we're… so short-handed."

That reminded me of the reason why help was so desperately needed with the harvest, which reminded me that I'd never see Mildred again, which brought on another wave of tears. I felt a little guilty that I cried more over Mildred than over my brothers or sister, but I couldn't help it. At least I was the only one who knew which loss made me cry the most.

Mrs. Turner smiled at me through her own tears. "That's true," she said. "By the way, both of you are welcome to ride to the potluck in our wagon, if you wish. The men and older boys will be busy filling in the graves for awhile, so there will be room for you. The men will all walk to the church and join us later."

I turned to Vash. "I'm guessing that pot luck is lunch for everybody," I said.

He nodded. Tears still trickled down his face.

"Do you want to go to the potluck?" I asked. "We could just go home and rest, instead, if you prefer. There's probably enough food at the house that I could find something to feed you. However, I should probably warn you that my cooking isn't as good as what most of these other ladies can do."

"I should help with covering the graves," he said.

He took a step in the direction of the nearest open grave before I caught his arm.

"No," I said firmly. "Even if you were strong enough to do that without hurting yourself, it's the last gift that any of us can give to our friends and family who died. Please… don't take that away from us."

His shoulders drooped, but he nodded. "Let's go to the potluck, then," he said.

"Okay," I said.


	7. Wounds

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**: _I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": they belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 7: Wounds**

_Year 0092 month 2 day 12, later_

We followed Mrs. Turner to her wagon. One of her daughters sat on the seat with her, and the other sat on the bench that faced backward and was attached to the wagon just behind the seat.

I led Vash to the back of the wagon, to the tail end behind the chairs. We could have sat on the bench with Rita Turner, but I arranged it the way I did so that I could speak with him privately. We got onto the wagon, leaving the tail gate down, and dangled our feet over the end.

When the wagon started moving, I laid my good hand on Vash's shoulder and spoke softly to him.

"I know that you only wanted to help," I said. In the few days that I'd known him, I had learned that much about him.

"It's a kindly thought," I continued, "but it would not have been appreciated. Besides, you've done and suffered enough. We don't want you hurting yourself, again, for those who can no longer be helped."

He nodded, but he didn't look up from his contemplation of the ground passing beneath us. Fresh tears dripped off his face.

"I understand," he said. "I just wish that I had done more to save them."

"I'm sure you did the best you could," I said gently. "You're only human. There's only so much that any of us can do, when something like that happens."

"You are," he said sadly. "I'm not."

"What does that mean?" I asked, confused.

"It's not important," he said.

"We're friends, right?" I said.

"Yes," he said. He looked toward me, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Then what's important to you is also important to me," I said.

One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Good point," he said softly. "But, please, I really don't want to talk about that right now."

"Okay," I said. I squeezed his shoulder gently, and then let go.

Shortly after that, we arrived at the church. There were so many mouth-watering aromas coming from it that it was impossible to guess what foods awaited us. Sweet, salty and savory… every type of appetizing scent was borne on the wind.

Everyone got off of the wagon and went inside. We found one table crowded with dishes containing all kinds of food, and other tables that were empty but surrounded by chairs.

The ladies invited Vash to the head of the line approaching the food-laden table. He caught my arm as they pulled him forward, so that I went forward with him. We each took a plate, and stepped to different sides of the buffet table.

I carefully balanced my plate on my left forearm, and began taking small samples of each dish and putting them onto it. I'd hobble a step or two until I could reach the next few items, and take small samples of each of them. I glanced across the table to see that Vash was doing much the same thing, though his helpings were a bit larger… until we reached Mrs. Epstein's contribution.

I saw his eyes light up at the sight of the two large platters piled high with doughnuts.

"Doughnuts!" he said, and immediately took as many as his plate would hold.

I could hear the other ladies and girls giggling or snickering, but I only smiled at him. It felt good to see him so delighted by something, even if it was only a pastry.

I saw him find a place to sit and eat nearby. I also saw that he was quickly surrounded by pretty girls who were all a little older than I. Opal and Ruby Jensen were among them.

I sighed wistfully, and finished filling my plate. It had been silly of me to hope that I could sit and eat near him. I hobbled carefully to my usual spot in the far corner, where as few people as possible were likely to notice me.

Thankfully, with Vash attracting everyone's attention, it was unlikely that anyone would notice me at all. I put my tableware down, and then took my plate off my left forearm and put it on the table, too. I pulled out the chair and sat down. I bowed my head, briefly offering up silent thanks, and then I began to eat.

When I had eaten a little more than half of the food on my plate, a movement caught my attention. Vash was standing up, and looking around. He smiled when he saw me, and I smiled back before lowering my face to hide the blush I felt heating my cheeks.

When I looked up again, I saw that he had returned to the food table. He was saying something to a few of the ladies, who gestured toward the food, nodded and smiled. He nodded back at them, and then began moving along the buffet table again.

His movements told me that he was getting second helpings. This time, he walked the whole length of the table and it looked like he took samples of the offerings beyond the doughnuts.

Several of the girls followed him. When he turned back toward the tables designated for eating, I noticed that his plate again had more doughnuts than anything else. He smiled at me again, and then began walking toward me.

My jaw dropped, and the fork full of food stopped short of reaching my mouth. He kept right on coming toward me. I smiled at him again, and then took the bite off my fork.

He put his plate down across the table from me. "Hello, Martha," he said, smiling, "I missed you." He held up one index finger, and then turned and walked away.

He returned to the area across the room where the food was offered, and returned with two glasses of water. He put one glass by my plate, another by his, and sat down. He smiled and began eating.

The other girls had followed him, some with plates of their own and others empty-handed. Some crowded around the end of the table where we sat, and others stationed themselves nearby along both sides. They ignored me completely, and chattered at him or with each other.

I smiled at him, murmured thanks for the water, and then lowered my face to minimize the appearance of the inevitable blush. I resumed eating my own lunch, pausing occasionally to drink some of the water he'd brought.

As before, he ate steadily without saying anything in reply to the chatter or inquiries directed at him. He might nod, or shake his head, or shrug, or smile, but he didn't speak to them.

He did catch my eye, once, and say, "These doughnuts are _very_ good! My compliments to the baker."

I smiled at him, and then nodded, and then looked down at my own nearly empty plate.

Other girls exclaimed, each apparently assuming he was speaking to her. They chattered for a short while about how Mrs. Epstein ran one of the local cafés. Hers contained a small bakery, and her pastries were a favorite treat.

When I finished eating, I stood up to take my plate, cup, and eating utensils to the kitchen downstairs. That's where potluck dishes always went, to be washed by the people assigned to cleaning up.

However, I'd barely hobbled two steps when Ruby Jensen tripped and pushed me, hard, toward the outside wall. What flashed through my mind, as I saw the window looming closer, was to wonder if she'd pushed me hard enough to break the glass… or if I'd only get bruised this time.

To my surprise, I heard Vash say, "No!" and then I felt his left arm around my waist. He pulled me away from the window, and tried to catch me, but we overbalanced and fell together onto our left sides on the floor.

There was a collective gasp, and then a brief silence, from everyone nearby.

He grunted, and I heard his breath hiss between his teeth. "Ouch!" he said.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Are you?" he said tensely.

"I think so, but I asked first," I said.

"I'll… live," he said.

I rolled away from him, and pried myself up to a sitting position using my left elbow and right hand. I had to push against the skirts of some of the other girls to make room for myself on the floor.

He was holding his right hand against his right side, where his ribs were broken and where the doctors had operated. His face was far paler than it had been a moment ago.

"Let me see," I said gently.

His initial response was only a pleading look, and a slight head shake.

"Let me see," I said again, more firmly this time.

He grimaced and closed his eyes, but this time he moved his hand and arm away from his side. I carefully lifted the right side of his vest, and saw a bright red spot spreading about where his stitches from the surgery were likely to be.

If that much blood had soaked through both his bandages _and_ his shirt…

"Oh, no!" I said. "You shouldn't have done that!"

"Those windows have very thin glass," he said, still grimacing. His words came more slowly, probably because the pain of his injury was increasing. "If it broke, it might blind you. I couldn't let that happen. I had to do something."

I'd nearly lost an eye before, when I acquired the crescent-shaped scar that curled around my right eye. Thankfully, that circle was incomplete and the eye had been missed.

"Thank you, V-friend," I said.

I felt terrible. I had come so near to slipping up and breaking my promise: I'd almost said his name, in public!

I also felt incredibly worried and guilty – he was hurt, because of me.

I reached out with my good hand, and gently took hold of his natural hand. I pulled his hand forward so that it could rest by my lap without making his arm cover the part of his side where he was bleeding. I did not let go of his hand.

He opened his eyes, and tried to smile, but the pain made his face grimace again.

"It hurts," he said, in a bewildered tone much like I'd heard very young children say it. He wasn't really complaining as much as stating a fact.

"Somebody!" I shouted, "Please, help! He's been hurt!"

I was surprised that all the girls surrounding us had remained still, and mostly quiet, and simply stared. Nobody had gone for help, and nobody else had yelled for help.

My shout brought some of the women, instead of only the girls. It also brought a few of the men who had begun to trickle into the church, after they'd finished with the graves and washed up.

Ike was among the men who came. He pushed aside some of the gawking girls, and knelt behind Vash. He rested one hand gently on Vash's bicep.

"What happened?" Ike said. He was using his "I'm the Sheriff, and you better have a good answer or else you're in serious trouble" voice.

Vash opened his eyes and gasped, "Ruby tripped Martha… and pushed her." Then he closed his eyes, grunted "ouch," and clenched his teeth as he grimaced again.

Ruby found her voice. "I did no such thing," she said haughtily. "He must be mistaken. Peg-she's so clumsy! She probably just tripped on her own."

"Shut up," Ike said to Ruby. He shifted his gaze to me. "Martha, spare him the pain of talking," he said. "Tell me what happened."

I looked down at Vash. He opened his eyes, and looked at me. I saw an expectation in those eyes that I simply could not bear to disappoint.

"He's right," I said softly. "Ruby tripped me, and pushed me toward the window. He worried that if it broke, the sharp edges might damage my eyes. So… well, I'm not sure how he did it, since he came from behind, but he caught me and changed the direction of my fall. It looks like that exertion broke the stitches from his surgery. Now he's bleeding."

Ike sighed and pinched his own nose between his eyes. "Someone get Mil— no," he corrected himself, sounding sad, "she can't come." He sighed again.

"Someone get a bottle of the strongest whiskey in the saloon," Ike said firmly, "and get Ruth to come and stitch him back together. The rest of you, go on about your business."

People began to disperse, if reluctantly. I started to back away, with intent to stand up and leave. But Vash pulled weakly at my hand, and Ike caught my shoulder.

I stopped trying to back away, and both men seemed to relax. I stayed with Vash and Ike, while nearly everyone else left. Sally stood behind Ike, looking concerned.

"Please tell me the truth, Martha," Ike said. "Is this the first time that Ruby has tripped or pushed you?"

"Probably not," Sally said. She sounded somewhat annoyed, which was moderately unusual for her. "Martha always had far more 'accidents' at school than at any other time. That's why we pulled her out, and had the teachers send the work home. Getting out of the schoolhouse improved her grades, when she didn't have to worry about getting hurt there anymore."

I looked up at Sally, astonished. I had no idea that she'd ever suspected, until now.

"I see," Ike said to Sally. Then he looked at me again, and gently jostled my shoulder to get my attention. "Martha, talk to me," he said softly. "Tell me. Please."

Vash squeezed my hand three times.

I gathered my courage and said softly, "Almost everybody at the school has either tripped me, or pushed me, or sometimes both." I shrugged dismissively. "It happened a lot."

Ike sighed and shook his head. "Can you tell me who hasn't?" he said.

"The teachers didn't," I said. "The ones three or more grades younger hadn't started school before I left. The MacDonald twins, Cindy and Ella, were usually too busy playing by themselves. I don't think that Fred ever picked on me, nor his sisters, either…" My voice faded away. At the moment, I couldn't think of anybody else.

"Did anyone trip or push you more than most of the others?" he said, still talking much more gently than I was used to hearing him address me.

"Well…" I said, hesitating.

I felt heat in my face, and looked down at Vash. His eyes were closed, and his face still contorted in pain.

He squeezed my hand three times, again. I didn't know how he managed to be so gentle, given how much pain he must be suffering.

"Please," Ike said, encouragingly.

"Ruby," I said slowly, "Gilda, Lois, Iva, Hattie, Reggie, Boris, and Quentin will hit, kick, trip, throw something, or push me nearly every time they see me. That was happening even before we ever started going to school. Sometimes they dare others to do it, instead, but one of them is always around when anybody hits, kicks, trips, pushes, or throws things at me."

Vash squeezed my hand once. I hoped that meant he approved. I'd only told the truth, but it had a sour taste in my mouth. It was very difficult to say those things.

"O my God," Ike said softly.

His words sounded like a sincere prayer, which puzzled me. Normally, when he said something like that, it was spoken in anger. I looked up at him, confused.

"Thank you, Martha," he said, even more gently. "Let's take care of this man. Then I will look into the other matter."

"Are you considering making arrests?" Sally said, sounding curious.

"I can't arrest all the kids roughly Martha's age," he said, "but I can put the fear of God into them. This man is correct. Martha might have been blinded. We never should have let things go so far that it could come to this. Ruby, and some of those others she named, may face a stiffer penalty than a mere scolding."

I looked at him, my eyes wide with fear. "No!" I said. "Please, don't…"

Ike reached out to me and rested his hand on my shoulder, which made me fall silent. He gazed at me for a long time.

Finally he said, "I'm sorry, Martha. I… haven't always been as gentle toward you as I should have. You're family, but I haven't been much of a brother to you. I was wrong, and I have no excuse. I'll try to do right by you, though, from now on."

He squeezed my shoulder again, and then he let go and stood up.

"Where are Ruth and that whiskey?" he demanded loudly.

Sally started to kneel, a slow and cumbersome process while she was so late in her pregnancy. Ike caught her shoulder and shook his head.

"We will take care of him," he said. "You get away, so that you don't get sick."

She looked mildly displeased at first, but then she looked down at her bulging stomach and smoothed her hands over it.

"Okay," she said softly. She straightened and slowly walked away.

"Let's get his shirt open," Ike said to me, "and start unwrapping his bandages."

I helped Ike until Ruth arrived. She had the whiskey, plus a needle, thread, scissors, and clean bandages.

Ike took the bottle from her, and spoke to Vash.

"I don't know your name, son," he said, 'but I think you know what needs to happen. Some of this whiskey goes inside of you, to help dull the pain. Some will go outside, to keep the wound clean. It's going to hurt like hell, though, even with you half drunk and Ruth trying to be gentle."

Vash nodded, opened his eyes, and reached for the bottle. He carefully drank a little less than a quarter of its contents, before extending the bottle back toward Ike.

"Are you sure that's all you want?" Ike said. "You might want to be more drunk than that, with as much as this is going to hurt."

"Don't want to throw up," Vash said. "That'd hurt, too."

By that time, we had his shirt unbuttoned and laid open. We cut away his bandages.

"Okay," Ike said. "Ruth, please do what's needed." He stood up and backed away.

Ruth nodded and knelt where he had been.

She owned the mercantile, and had become the best seamstress in town… since Mildred was gone. She soon had Vash's wound stitched back together, though the process made her face look uncommonly pale.

Sometime during that process, Vash passed out.

She gently felt of his ribs, re-bandaged him, and buttoned his shirt back together.

"His ribs feel firm," she said, sounding relieved. "Since he didn't land on that side, the work done at the hospital to hold them in place while they heal is probably fine. Most likely, he just moved wrong, perhaps twisting too much, and that tore open his wound."

"Thank you, Ruth," Ike said. "I really appreciate your help."

She nodded, stood, and walked away.

Ike said, "Wait here with him, Martha. I'll get Bob, and we'll get him into the wagon."

As promised, Ike took us home in his wagon. Vash lay in the back, and I sat beside him. Bob rode shotgun. When we reached the house, they carried Vash inside and up the stairs.

They worked together to get Vash's clothes off, stripping him down to his bandages and his underwear. Then they lay him flat on the bed, and pulled some of the blankets over him.

I took his bloodied clothes downstairs. I set the washtub on the counter beside the sink, and set the clothes into the washtub. I took the biggest bowl I could hold and filled it with water, and then poured the water into the washtub. I repeated that process, until the washtub had enough water in it that all of his clothes were either submerged or floating. Then I poured laundry soap into the washtub and stirred it.

Those clothes should soak for a while, so I returned upstairs.

Ike and Bob were still in the room with Vash, who still slept. They turned toward me when they heard me. I stood in the doorway, concerned.

"I don't know if he'll wake tonight," Bob said.

"My sister will bring dinner later," Ike said. "It's her turn. Hopefully she'll have the sense to bring it in a manner that will permit him to eat later. I'll send Dusty home tonight, too, so you won't be alone if this man needs anything."

I nodded.

Bob sighed, and stood. "I suppose we'd best get going," he said, "if Seamus and I are going to get those bank robbers hauled to December, and return in time to have a decent night's sleep."

"Aye," Ike said, and then he stood up also. "Martha, I'm sorry that we won't be able to spare anyone to stay with you tomorrow. With the robbers in December, though, Dusty can be here at night. I'll begin looking into that other matter, too."

"They'll say I lied," I said softly.

"That's to be expected," Ike said. He surprised me with a friendly smile. "However, the way you've been so quiet about it all these years, and the fact that it took this man seeing it happen to pry the information out of you, I won't believe them if they call you a liar."

I felt heat in my face again, and looked down. "I wouldn't lie about something like that, Ike," I said.

"If I'd been paying attention, like I should have," Ike said, "I should already have known that about you. I'm sorry that I didn't."

I shrugged. I didn't know what to say.

"Try to get some rest, while he's sleeping," Ike said. "He may want your company later, when he wakes."

I nodded.

"Goodnight," Bob said.

"Goodnight," I said.

Each man shook my hand, and then left the room and went downstairs. I heard them leave the house, close the door behind them, and then drive away in the wagon.

I stood for a time, looking at Vash and silently praying for him. Finally, I said softly, "Get better, please."

I turned and hobbled across the hall to my room. I changed out of my good clothes and into dark-colored comfortable clothes. I figured that something dark-colored wouldn't show much if it got rumpled while I slept in it.

I saw some blood on the blouse I'd just taken off. I figured there might be some on the darker vest and skirt, also. So I took my clothes downstairs, and put them into the washtub with Vash's.

I grabbed the handle of the washtub on the far side of the sink, and poured most of the water out into the sink. Then, using the bowl again, I poured fresh water into the washtub. I added soap again, and stirred it again.

Leaving them to soak, I returned upstairs and took Ike's advice.


	8. Recovery

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**: _I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": they belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 8: Recovery**

_Year 0092 month 2 day 12, evening_

Vash didn't wake for dinner, but I did. As Ike expected, his sister brought the meal for us.

"He's not awake yet," I said apologetically, when I met her at the front door. "If you don't mind bringing it to the kitchen, then I can transfer the food to our dishes. At least that way, you can take yours home."

"That would be fine," Sarah said kindly. "I'm very sorry that he got hurt again. Though I'm not too surprised, from what Ike told me, that he hasn't waked up yet. He said the second man drank a fair amount of whiskey, which is understandable under the circumstances. That might keep him out cold until morning."

I poured her Thomas-and-noodle soup into one of our kettles, and moved her freshly-baked biscuits to one of our plates. I pushed aside the laundry tub and set the dish-washing tub into the sink. I carefully washed, rinsed and dried her dishes.

As I worked, Sarah and I talked.

"Thank you," I said. "I know that you make a fine soup. I'm sure that the second man will appreciate it, when he wakes up, too."

"Has he ever said what his name is?" she asked.

"He said that he wanted us to continue thinking of him simply as 'the second man,'" I said truthfully, hoping that my evasion would satisfy her enough to prevent further questions about his name.

"He said he hopes that if we all learn from the mistake we made with him, then maybe we won't make the same mistake again with anybody else," I added. "He knows that it's a painful lesson for us, though in a different way than it has been painful for him, but he feels that it's important for us to learn that lesson."

"Grace Jensen, and Opal, have both said that he talked about love and peace," she said. "They say he wouldn't let Ruby call you 'Peggy,' and that he demanded she apologize to you. I'm sorry for calling you that, too, Martha. I'd never really thought about it. I guess that I'd just heard it said so many times that I started saying it, too. I wasn't trying to be rude, or insulting. I never meant to hurt you."

I glanced up at her. She looked like she meant it. Even if she only meant it from wanting to make a good impression on Vash, the very fact that she'd said it meant a lot to me.

"Apology accepted," I said. It was much easier to say those words, this time. I turned back toward the sink, to finish washing her dishes.

"Thank you," she said.

We were both silent as I finished scrubbing her dishes, and rinsed them.

Why was it so much easier to accept this third apology, and say so? I found myself wondering. As I considered it, I realized that this apology came from someone who had not injured me. Also, Sarah had chosen to apologize almost spontaneously. Vash and her mother were not standing there and insisting that she say it.

It also helped to feel, from the sound of her voice, that she sincerely meant her apology. It didn't feel like she'd said it only to get out of a tight spot, as it had felt with Ruby.

Ike had also apologized spontaneously, but he'd not given me any time to reply. At the time, Vash's needs had taken precedence.

"Other things that they say that the second man said – they're almost poetic," Sarah said thoughtfully, finally breaking the silence again. "Even keeping his name from us, for our sakes… how many people would do a thing like that? What an amazing man!"

"I've never met nor heard of anyone else like him," I agreed.

"Edith Brooke said he knew the killer," she said, tipping her head inquisitively, "because that same man had killed someone special to him. She said that he'd been following that man ever since. Does that mean he will continue following him, after he recovers?"

"Yes," I said, remembering. My hand, drying one of her dishes, slowed its movements as I thought about what she'd just said. "He did say that. I don't know his plans, though."

I took the dried dish out of the metal stand that held it for me, and put in a different one. I began wiping the next dish, as I had the prior ones.

She sighed. "He seems like a fine man," she said wistfully. "It'd sure be nice if we could keep him around. If he won't tell us his name, though, he probably means to leave us."

She was probably right, I realized. I felt my insides twist.

I wanted Vash to get better. I didn't like seeing him in pain. I wanted to see his face without all those bruises. I wanted to see how he would move, when he did not need to be careful of healing injuries. I wanted to see if he'd smile and laugh more often, if he wasn't hurting from incompletely healed injuries.

I did _not_ want him to leave.

"I wish he would never go away," I said, very softly. I hadn't meant to say it at all, but somehow the words just came out of my mouth on their own.

"Maybe, after he tracks down that killer," she said speculatively, "he might come back, if we treat him well enough now. Maybe that could make him want to return."

Her eyes had a faraway look as I turned toward her. I don't think she'd heard what I'd just said. I stood quietly, empty-handed. Her dishes sat dried and ready for her on the counter. I couldn't help feeling awkward, because I didn't know what I should do.

Sarah Hansen was twenty-three. Her older brothers, George and Ike and Bob, were so very protective of her that most of the men (both in our village and in December) were afraid to ask her out for dates. She was an excellent cook and reasonably pretty, but she was still single and she wasn't dating anyone.

She was probably lonely, something I understood only too well.

After a short while, her eyes refocused on me. She put her hand on my shoulder.

"Take _very_ good care of him, Martha," she said, "for all of our sakes."

"I'll do my best," I promised. I lowered my face and added, very softly, "for _his_ sake."

"Good," she said. Her faraway look had returned. She shook herself, and saw her dried dishes on the counter. She gathered them up and said, "I suppose I should go. You'll want to eat, and then rest. It's been nice chatting with you, though. Goodnight."

I accompanied her to the door, and said, "Goodnight" to her as she left.

I returned to the kitchen and enjoyed my share of the soup and biscuits while they were still warm. There was plenty left for Dusty and Vash, even if they both took second helpings. I put everything away, washed the dishes I'd used, and then returned upstairs.

He was still asleep. The late-evening sun-rays cast a golden glow over him. He seemed almost like some fairytale prince, even with bruises still covering so much of his face.

I walked across the hall to my room, and lay down. Before I realized it, I was dreaming of Vash riding on a Thomas with a fancy saddle, wearing his "1001 buckles" leather outfit, and using his silver revolver to chase away bank robbers.

…

_Year 0092 month 2, night 12-13_

I briefly woke up, sometime during the night.

Dusty was changing Vash's bandages. I heard the soft murmur of their voices, which was probably what woke me. I sat up and looked through the open doorways to see what was happening. The lamp was lit in the other room, so it was easy to see into there.

I watched silently, without leaving my room. I saw Dusty unwrap Vash's bandages from around his body, pour more whiskey over the injury in his side, and then wrap clean bandages around him. Vash grimaced a lot, but he cooperated without any loud cries.

I guessed that Ike must have left the bottle in there on the bedside table. I probably hadn't noticed it because I was too busy looking at Vash.

In response to something Vash said, Dusty started rummaging in Vash's duffel bag. I tensed, worried that he'd find my boots in there and get upset. But he didn't find them. He pulled out various articles of clothing, and finally found some pajama bottoms. He helped Vash get into them, and then he helped Vash down the hall to the restroom.

I stood near my doorway in silent sleepiness. After a time that probably felt longer than it was, they returned. Dusty helped Vash get back into his bed, and then blew out the lamp.

I made a mental note to check for Vash's clothes in the morning. If they were still strewn about the room then, I would put them back into his duffel bag.

I yawned and lay down, and was soon asleep again.

…

_Year 0092 month 2 day 13_

The morning dawned clear and bright, as usual. It was a Wednesday, the middle of the week. School would still be closed, since the harvest was not yet finished.

This meant that, except for the arrival of breakfast, lunch and dinner, the only thing that I needed to do today was to take care of "the second man" and his bloodied clothes.

I owed him, big time, for injuring himself while trying to protect me yesterday. However, even without that, I would be willing to look after him. I'd discovered, during the few days that I'd known him, that Vash could be a very pleasant companion.

For the first time in years, I looked forward to the day with anticipation that I might enjoy it. I caught myself in a selfish wish that he might not recover too quickly, for fear that he might leave soon. I pushed aside that thought, and prayed again – sincerely – for his swift and complete recovery.

I really didn't want him to suffer any pain. I just wanted him to stay here. Even if he moved into town, instead of continuing to stay in our house, at least I'd still see him sometimes.

I sat up, rubbing sleepily at my eyes, and looked through my open doorway, across the hall, and into Vash's room. I saw that his blankets were already thrown back, and that he was slowly moving his feet off the bed and toward the floor.

As I'd half-expected, his clothes were still scattered all over the floor. He still wore only his pajama bottoms, presumably his underwear beneath them, and his bandages.

I quickly threw back my own blankets and hobbled across the hall bare-footed. "Let me help you," I said softly, "please."

I'd spoken softly from a desire to avoid waking Dusty. I was usually the first to wake each morning, so it was likely that my brother was still asleep in his room down the hall.

"Please just help me get to the bathroom, if you would be so kind," Vash said, sounding slightly out of breath. "I can tend myself in there."

I moved nearer and helped him finish sitting up. Then I moved to his other side, and pulled his right arm across my shoulders. That's how I helped him to stand.

"Sorry that I'm so weak today," he said. "I don't like putting you to all this trouble."

"I don't mind, not for you," I said.

Suddenly realizing how flirtatious that may have sounded, I quickly added, "You probably saved all of our lives last week, not just Hank O'Dell's. I also owe you, big time, for helping me yesterday. Besides, I've never eaten so well!"

As we talked, I'd helped him to stand up. As I said the bit about eating well, he stiffened abruptly. I had expected him to walk forward when he stood, but he didn't.

"What do you mean, you've never eaten so well?" he asked.

"Isn't it the same everywhere? If you don't work, you don't eat," I said. "Old folks, they've already put in years of work, so we feed them to pay them back. Little kids, we know that they will work when they grow bigger, so we feed them to pay it forward."

I shrugged slightly, mindful of his hurt side against me. I had no wish to cause him any more pain, so I took extra care in my movements while he leaned against me.

"With my bad hand and foot, I can't do much work," I continued. "People knew that about me since I was very small. So, for most of my life, I've only eaten whatever scraps were left over after everyone else had finished. I was always last in line at potlucks, until you pulled me to the front yesterday. Assisting you, while you heal, is the first work I've ever done that anybody has considered to be worth a full share of food."

"That's terrible!" he said. "Why didn't you tell me about this the other day, in the jail?"

"That's not really about me," I said, surprised. "It's just the way things are. How could something like that possibly interest you? Besides, what's so terrible about it?"

"It's wrong to treat another person like that," he said sadly, "no matter the reason. You, though, you have to work twice as hard as others to get half as much done. They should appreciate the effort that you put into everything you do. Families and communities... they should be more loving toward each other, and especially toward their children."

"I'm not a child anymore," I said, leaning just a little bit toward the doorway. "Let's get you to the bathroom, first, and then we can talk all you like."

"Good plan," he said, and then went quiet as he concentrated on the effort of walking.

While in his room, I guided him around the piles that Dusty had made of his clothes. I didn't want either of us to end up tripping over any of them. When we reached the door to his room, I carefully helped him walk into and then down the hallway.

As I walked, I tried hard to keep my strides as even as possible. I didn't want my perpetual limp to throw off his balance, or make him tense in any way that might cause extra pain to his injuries. When I got him into the bathroom, he stopped and pulled his arm off my shoulders. He leaned against the sink cabinet, and pulled away from me.

"Out you go," he said with gentle firmness. "I'll do this part by myself."

I sighed. "I've already seen most of you," I said. "I've changed a _lot_ of diapers, and helped several little ones learn to use the toilet, so I'm quite familiar with the general configuration of the masculine body. It's silly for you to get all bashful now. I can tell by how you're moving that further assistance would be useful to you."

"I'll manage," he said, with a corner of his mouth quirking upward to create one of his lopsided grins. He scratched at the back of his neck with his left hand. "Please close the door behind you."

"Okay," I said reluctantly. I was worried: his face looked _so_ pale. "But I'll wait right outside. If you cry out, or fall down, or anything – I'll come back in, immediately!"

"Fair enough," he said. "Now please, leave, so that I can do what I need to do."

I hesitated, worried about him, but then I turned and stepped into the hallway. I pulled the door shut until it latched behind me. I heard his step move toward the toilet, followed by appropriate sounds to indicate that he used it and flushed it.

I don't know why, but I was relieved that I had not heard the lock on bathroom's door.

I heard him wash his hands, and then he said, "Martha."

I opened the door, and found him leaning hard on the counter surrounding the sink. His face looked so pale under its many fading bruises that it seemed grey.

"I should have stayed and helped," I said softly.

"No," he said quickly. "Thanks for offering, though."

"Not a problem," I said.

I pulled his arm around my shoulders again, and again slowly and carefully walked down the hall. He leaned on me more heavily on the return trip than he had formerly.

When we reached his room, I eased him down until we both sat on his bed.

He sighed, and said a little breathlessly, "Thank you."

"Anytime," I said, trying to sound cheerful.

I eased his arm down from around my shoulders, and stood up.

"Did Dusty get you any of last night's dinner?" I asked. "I can get some for you, and heat it up again, if you're hungry. Sarah Hansen's Thomas-and-noodle soup is very good, and it's easy on a sore stomach. Or I can let you know when breakfast arrives, instead."

"That soup does sound good," he said, "for later. Right now, if you have any milk, a glass of that sounds about right. Then... I think I'll need to rest awhile."

"I can get some milk for you," I said softly. "It shouldn't take long. You rest all you want. I won't let anyone bother you."

"Thank you, again," he said weakly.

I went out of his room and down the stairs as quickly as I safely could. When I reached the kitchen, I poured a glass of milk for him.

I glanced at the washtub where yesterday's clothes still soaked in soapy water. The water had taken on a slightly pinkish tint. I had promised Vash that I would return quickly, since it looked like he was struggling to stay sitting up. So I began to return immediately, instead of refreshing the water in the washtub. I had to go more slowly coming back than leaving, both to avoid tripping and to move along without spilling any of his milk.

He was sitting with his head bowed, and his hands braced on the mattress on either side of his knees when I returned to his room. His face was alarmingly pale.

"Vash?" I said, barely above a whisper.

He looked up and smiled at me.

I handed him the glass of milk. His hand shook as he accepted the glass and drank it, but he smiled and thanked me again when he finished drinking and set his empty glass on the bedside table. I fluffed up his pillow a little, and then helped him to lie down again.

I slipped my left forearm around and under his right shoulder, and used my right hand and forearm behind his left shoulder. With only one hand, it was the best method I could think of to ease him down slowly and avoid unnecessary strain on his injured muscles. I didn't mind the near-hug, if he didn't. As far as I could tell, he didn't mind.

"Thanks," he said weakly. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

"I'll get some extra pillows, to prop you up if you want to sit up later," I said. "I'll stack them on one of these chairs, so they'll be handy whenever you want them. After that, I'll stay out and let you rest... at least until lunch time, unless you call. I'll be in my room, after I tend to washing yesterday's clothes. I'm just letting you know, so that you won't startle if you hear me."

"That's very thoughtful of you," he said, and briefly smiled again.

I guess I'd been too concerned about him, earlier this morning, to blush when he smiled. At least, I don't recall feeling heat in my face when he smiled before. This time, however, there was no mistaking the heat that flooded into my face. This heat was far too intense to miss noticing. Thankfully, his eyes were closed so he couldn't possibly see it. His inability to see me blushing was a small relief, though I wished I hadn't blushed at all.

I gently took hold of his feet, one at a time, and moved them under the sheet and blanket again. Then I took the edge of the sheet and blanket, and pulled them across him.

"I'm just trying to do right by you," I said softly. "I'm trying to think of what you might need or want, anything that might help you to be comfortable or to heal."

"You're doing it well," he said weakly. "I wish more people were like you."

The heat in my face grew even hotter. I was _very_ thankful that his eyes were closed!

"It's … very kind of you to say that," I said. "Thank you."

He smiled again, more briefly, and I could tell that he was slipping into sleep.

I quickly gathered his clothing, which was strewn all over the floor, and dropped it onto a chair. Then I hobbled out of his room as quietly as I could. I gathered three pillows from the empty bedrooms: two under my left arm, and a third in my right hand. I took them to his room, where he slept, and quietly placed them onto the nearest chair.

I took his empty milk glass, and quietly hobbled across the hall. His water glass, from before, remained on his bedside table. I put aside his empty milk glass long enough to put on fresh socks, then I took the glass downstairs. I washed it, dried it, and put it away.

I turned to the clothes in the washtub, and poured out as much of the water as I could. Using a bowl, I bailed hot water into the tub, and added more soap. I also stirred everything around again. I left the clothes to soak some more.

I got my own, smaller, glass of milk.

That's when Dusty came downstairs. He was fully dressed in work clothes, and shaved.

"Good morning," I said.

"Humph," he said, but he nodded and sort of half-grinned at me.

"Do you happen to know who's bringing breakfast?" I asked. "If I knew how far she had to come to get here, I could make a better guess on when to expect her."

"No idea," he said. "Has our guest waked again, or is he still asleep?"

"I think he's asleep again," I said. "I helped him get to the bathroom a little earlier."

Dusty gave me a strange look.

"He shut me out while he did his business," I said, "if that's what you wondered. I just helped him get to and from the room."

Dusty nodded and turned away to the refrigerator, where he began rummaging. "We're lower on milk than I would have expected," he said.

"The second man asked for some," I said, "so I filled one of our bigger glasses and took it up for him. He drank it all, so I guess we'll need to get some more."

"Oh, okay," Dusty said. "I'll stop by George Hansen's goat ranch on the way home tonight, and get some more."

"Thanks," I said.

"Humph," Dusty said again, and then he apparently discovered the Thomas-and-noodle soup. "Did Sarah bring the soup?" he asked.

"Yes, that was last night's dinner," I said. "He was asleep, so he didn't get any yet."

That's when we both heard a knock on the front door.

"That should be breakfast," Dusty said, turning toward me with a grin. "I'll get the door."

"Okay," I said.

I drank the last of my milk, leaned back in my chair, and sighed. It felt good to sit down and not need to do anything. I let myself enjoy the moment of laziness.

I thought I should check on Vash, so that he could have breakfast while it's hot if he was awake. I stood and began hobbling through the house toward the stairs.

I met Dusty, followed by Clara Brown, en route to the kitchen. He carried a covered pan with hot-pads on its handles. The smell of Thomas-apple sausages and sweet-potato pancakes had to be coming from there. My mouth watered at the thought of such treats.

"Good morning," I said. "I'll just go up and check on him, to see if he's awake."

"Thank you," Clara said.

"No, thank _you_ for breakfast!" I replied, grinning.

She smiled back, and continued following Dusty to the kitchen.

Clara Brown was somewhat more than commonly pretty, and I'd seen Dusty among the young men who tended to drift into orbit around her. Between that, and the alacrity with which Dusty had offered to answer the door (not to mention that he was already fully dressed and shaved, with his hair neatly combed this early), I suspect that he'd fibbed about not knowing who was scheduled to bring breakfast this morning.

I forgave my brother for his deception, as soon as I suspected it. I had learned, during the last two days, that it was much easier to avoid specifically mentioning a particular person than to face the embarrassment of blushing in front of others.

That concern, I was compelled to admit within the privacy of my own thoughts, had helped me remember to avoid saying Vash's name where others might hear it.

If Clara had a similar effect on Dusty, then I couldn't blame him for being less than perfectly honest where she was concerned.

I hobbled up the stairs as quietly as I could. I took the few steps needful to reach the place in the hallway where my door and Vash's were. I peeked in through his open door, and saw that he still appeared to be sleeping.

I felt strangely relieved.

Clara was really pretty, and a better cook than I. If Dusty had taken a shine to her, then I had a good reason to want to keep the two apart. Vash was so compelling that I shouldn't be surprised if _any_ girl or young lady found herself blushing because of him. In time, what caused those blushes could lead to other results.

The less time that Clara spent around Vash, the less likely it was that she would be either strongly or lastingly affected by him.

As I turned back toward the stairs and began working my way down them, I realized that I was not immune. There was a possibility of "other results" following what caused me to blush when Vash smiled at me.

There was no question in my mind about whether Vash was worthy of those other results. He's a truly amazing, gentle, intelligent and kind soul. He's not exactly difficult to look at, either, even with his scars. Any lady would be extremely fortunate to have him around, as an integral part of her everyday life.

Unfortunately, there was the question of whether or not he would stay among us... or if he would ever return after leaving. Sarah Hansen was probably correct in her musings. It seemed unlikely that Vash would stop moving before he stopped the man who had killed both the special person in his own life, and also so many of our neighbors and kin.

I was ill-equipped to follow Vash, if he chose not to make this place his home.

I felt heat in my face again, and paused at the foot of the stairs to wait for it to go away. I could hear the soft murmurs of Dusty's and Clara's voices from the kitchen as I waited for my face to return to its normal color.

If Clara hadn't come this morning, looking so eager, I might not have thought about how quickly my friendship with Vash was growing. I wasn't used to having friends – especially not _masculine_ friends! It might not have occurred to me that I was in danger of wanting more from Vash than he might be prepared to give, without seeing Dusty's reaction to Clara's visit.

What exactly had Vash meant, when he'd said that I was his friend?

I resolved within myself to try to find an innocuous method of inquiring. I wouldn't ask Vash any serious questions while he was still doing poorly. However, I must at least choose questions that I could ask him when he was feeling better.

I couldn't know what I should do, if I didn't have any idea what he was thinking. I might not learn exactly what he thought (or felt), but I could at least gain a general understanding of his mindset. That should help me to sort out my own confusion.

Those thoughts also made me wonder: for whom was Clara looking so eager? Was it Vash, or was it Dusty?

I hobbled a few steps into the front room, enough to be away from the stairwell. Then I started whistling. Softly, at first, since I didn't want to risk disturbing Vash. My whistling grew louder as I drew nearer to the kitchen.

I didn't want to unexpectedly interrupt anything that might be brewing between Dusty and Clara. That could be very embarrassing to all three of us.

By the time I arrived in the kitchen, Dusty and Clara were on opposite sides of the table, each busily setting the last of the breakfast dishes into place.

"He's still asleep," I said.

"That's too bad," Clara said. She sounded only mildly disappointed. "We can set aside a plate for him to eat when he wakes, though."

Seeing Dusty's anxious expression, as he looked at Clara while she looked at me, made me even gladder that Vash was currently asleep.

"I'm sure he will appreciate that," I said, nodding. "However, I must admit that I'm glad to be awake! I like your sweet-potato pancakes and Thomas-apple sausages."

Clara smiled, and we all sat down to breakfast. Dusty said the blessing, and we ate with very little to say beyond how much we enjoyed her cooking, and appreciated her bringing this lovely breakfast to us.

Dusty and Clara tended to the clean-up, after I again checked on Vash and saw that his eyes remained closed and his breathing deep and even.

We put the remaining pancakes and sausages into a skillet, and put a lid on it. We set the heat to its lowest setting, to keep it warm in case he woke soon.

When Clara left, Dusty left with her. He made it seem entirely coincidental that he was ready to go, and that it was about time for him to go to work anyway.

I managed to avoid grinning, or doing anything else that might suggest his behavior was at all unusual. Instead, I merely wished them both a good day.

After thinking about it, I decided to tend the clothes before checking on Vash again. The doors were all open, and his room was above the front room. If he called out or fell, I would hear him. Since I would check on him after tending the laundry anyway, washing the clothes first would probably save me a trip up and down the stairs.

I washed out the clothes as quickly as I could, without being any less thorough than they needed. I hung them all up to dry, out on the back porch.

Then I returned up the stairs, and peered in to Vash's room. He lay still, except for breathing, but his eyes were open.

"Good morning, again," I said softly.

He smiled slightly as he turned his face toward me. "Good morning, Martha," he said.

"Are you ready to eat something?" I said. "We have sweet-potato pancakes and Thomas-apple sausages that are probably still warm, or I could heat up some of the Thomas-and-noodle soup from last night, if either of those interest you. If not, I can scrape together something. I'm no outstanding cook, as some of the others who have brought us food are, but I can make stuff that's at least edible."

His fading smile returned, wider. "If you'll prop me up with those pillows," he said, "I might try a little of both."

"Okay," I said.

I went to him, and, as before, I slipped my forearms around and behind his shoulders. That let me pull him to a sitting position, without him using any of his injured muscles.

He was as docile as the young children I'd tended when they were ill, or injured, and needed help. That was so different from the behavior of my brothers that I found it a little surprising. I didn't say anything about that, though. I didn't know which was unusual.

I pulled the pillows off the chair, one at a time, and arranged them between Vash's back and the headboard of the bed. When the pillows appeared to be adequately positioned, I used the same near-hug method to help him scoot his rear backward, and then lean his back against the pillows in a more relaxed sitting position.

"I'll return shortly with your food," I said.

"Thank you," he said. He reached over to the bedside table, and picked up the textbook he'd borrowed. He sat it in his lap and opened it.

I hobbled out of his room, through the hall, down the stairs, and through the front room to the kitchen. Once there, I chose one of our nicer plates. I also selected a fork for him. Then I went to the stove where the skillet with breakfast still sat over very low heat.

I set the plate and fork on the counter beside the stove. I lifted the lid on the skillet, and set it aside. I put two of Clara Brown's sweet-potato pancakes onto the plate for Vash, along with two of her smaller Thomas-apple sausages. There were still two more pancakes and four more sausages in the skillet, but I didn't want to appear as if I were trying to fatten him up. Lean looked good on him.

Then I thought about how any body with as many injuries as his had would need extra fuel to heal, and put another sausage onto the plate. I set the fork onto the edge of the plate, and put the lid back onto the skillet.

I took the soup out of the refrigerator, and put it onto a different stove burner and turned the heat on to "medium-high" setting under it. I hobbled over and got a stirring spoon, an eating spoon, and a bowl. I took those back to the stove, and set them on the counter beside it. I lifted the lid covering the soup kettle, and set it aside. I used the stirring-spoon on the soup. I put the spoon aside, and replaced the lid.

I couldn't help thinking, again, of how much easier that process would have been if I had two functional hands... instead of only one.

I carried Vash's breakfast plate to the table. I hobbled past the table to get a napkin out of the drawer. I chose one with only a few flowers embroidered on it, since I didn't know if Vash would think a flowery design insufficiently masculine. I carefully spread the napkin over the plate, and then picked it up with my thumb over the fork to hold it in place.

I carefully hobbled back through the house to take Vash's breakfast to him, without either tripping or stumbling enough to spill it. I leaned against the wall as I worked my way up the stairs, to stabilize myself and help me avoid any accidents there. I wasn't very quick, but at least I reached him without spilling anything along the way.

Vash laid aside the book as I walked into his room. "Martha," he said, and smiled.

Somehow I managed to say, "Hello Vash," almost normally. I hoped he'd think that my face was only rosy because I'd been hovering over hot food.

"This was still warm," I continued, "so I brought it up right away. I've put the soup on to reheat, though. By the time you finish this, the soup should be ready for you. I'll get you something to drink, too... would you like milk, water, tea, or berry juice?"

I saw his eyes slide toward the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the bedside table, and firmly suppressed an inner wince. I hoped that alcohol wasn't a weakness he had, since that could be a bad one. With as much pain as he must be in at the moment, it was small wonder that anything which might dull that pain would seem highly appealing.

"... or I could pour you some whiskey in your water glass," I added as I carefully placed the breakfast plate on his lap. I lifted the napkin off it, and laid it on the bedside table.

"Water will be just fine," he said. "That's an expensive brand of whiskey, and someone may need to use it on my outside when they change my bandages again this evening. Thank you, Martha. I appreciate your help."

"You're welcome," I said as I picked up his water glass and quickly turned toward the door to hide my hot face. "Back in a bit."

I hobbled down the hall to the bathroom, and went through the needful procedures to refill his glass without wasting water, while only able to use one hand.

I returned and set the glass on the bedside table where he could reach it easily. His mouth was full, but he nodded and grinned at me. I saw that half of one of the sausages had disappeared, and that he'd also made a visible dent into the pancakes.

"I can bring you some jelly to eat with the pancakes, if you'd like," I offered. "Or at least for the second round of pancakes, if you decide you'd like more of them. I like this kind plain, but some people prefer to add something sweet to them."

He finished chewing, swallowed, and said, "These are fine just like this, thank you." He cut another bite of pancake with his fork, and put it into his mouth.

"All right," I said. "I'll go down and check on the soup, then. At the rate this part is disappearing, given how slowly I must move to avoid spilling things, I will probably return with the soup shortly after you've finished what you have."

He nodded at me again, and I turned and left.

My prediction was reasonably accurate. The soup was simmering nicely when I arrived in the kitchen. I dished it into the bowl I'd set aside for it, put the lid back on and turned the heat down. I found a large metal platter that could serve as a tray, and carefully hobbled my way back up to Vash. As anticipated, his plate was empty.

He had been kind enough to place his plate onto the bedside table. This left his lap empty and ready to receive the bowl of soup on its makeshift tray.

"Second course!" I announced, as I put the soup tray onto his lap.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely, without looking up.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, concerned.

He looked up at me, eyes full of unshed tears. Then a tear spilled out onto his cheek.

"What's the matter?" I asked, more concerned.

He held up the napkin. "The embroidered flowers on this napkin," he said softly. "They're red geraniums. Those were Rem's favorite."

"Rem?" I said, confused.

"Rem was... I guess you could say she was like a mother to me," he said softly.

"You were adopted?" I said. "Do you know what happened to your birth-mother?"

"My mother had... some significant physical limitations, which made raising us impossible," he said. "So Rem took care of us, instead."

"That was very good of her," I said, "though raising a son like you must have made her very proud."

He bowed his head again. "She never saw us grow up," he said. "She died when we were very young."

"Oh no," I said, and laid my hand gently on his shoulder. "I'm so very sorry."

He nodded. He reached up with his left hand and gently patted my hand.

"Even so, in some ways, you're still lucky," I said, a little hoarsely. "At least you knew her, and can remember her. Surely your sibling must miss her, too."

"No," he said, with an intense sorrow in his voice – even beyond the sorrow that I heard when he spoke of Rem. "He doesn't."

I spoke of the only reason I could imagine, that would explain why he and a sibling would both be taken in, but only one remember and miss their adoptive mother.

"Was he that much younger than you, that he doesn't remember her?" I said, trying to be comforting.

"No," he said. "We're twins."

"Oh," I said, more confused than ever. I stopped talking, concerned that I'd say something else badly. I did not wish to say anything likely to tear at an unhealed inner wound. I moved back to sit on the nearest chair. I didn't want to leave him alone while he seemed so miserable.

He put the napkin down on the platter by his soup, and began eating almost mechanically. One bite followed another, until it was all gone. Then he sat still, his head bowed.

"If you think it might help," I said softly, "you can tell me about it. If not, that's okay too. I'm here for you, Vash, if you need anything."

"Thank you," he said softly. "Perhaps another time. What were you going to do in your room, that you expected would keep you there all day?"

"I was going to read a book," I said. "An old classic, according to the teacher. One that, apparently, most people have forgotten."

One corner of his mouth quirked slightly upward. "And what is the title of this half-forgotten classic?" he asked.

"Pride and Prejudice," I said. "According to the teacher, it was written by a woman during a time when women weren't expected to write books."

"Who was this brave woman who wrote books when women weren't expected to write them, then?" he asked. "It seems to me that her name should be remembered, too, and not only her books."

"I can get the book and see," I said. "To be honest, I hadn't thought about the author's name in that way."

"Please do," he said.

I hobbled across the hall, got the book, and brought it back. "It says her name was Jane Austen," I said.

"Jane Austen?" he said. "Is she the same one who wrote 'Sense and Sensibility'?"

"I don't know," I said.

"If it's not too much trouble, perhaps we could take turns reading it out loud," he suggested. "It would be something to do, while I'm too weak to move around much."

"Okay," I said. "Let me take your dishes downstairs, and turn off the stove and put the food in the refrigerator, first. Then I can return, and we'll have the whole day – except for lunch and dinner – to read. We can take breaks so that you can rest, anytime you want."

"Sounds good," he said. "You can begin reading as soon as you return."

…

_Year 0092 month 2 day 16_

We continued taking turns reading out loud, pausing only when people brought food, or when one of us needed the restroom, or to sleep at night, for the next few days.

At first, I did most of the reading. Gradually, Vash took more and longer turns until we were roughly equal in turns and duration. We finished "Pride and Prejudice" and went on to read from my literature textbook.

At first, we read in his room. I sat on a chair, and he sat on his bed propped up with pillows. On Thursday afternoon, we came downstairs and sat side by side on the couch while we read by the brightness of the sunlight shining through the window behind us.

Yesterday afternoon, immediately after lunch, he wanted to go outside and walk around a little. When that short walk left him nearly breathless, we sat on the porch and read aloud some more. He tried walking again a little before dinner, and again after dinner, and again just before bedtime. Each time it seemed to go just a little easier for him.

I kept to my plan, and chose some questions to ask him. However, with spending so much time reading, there's been little opportunity to ask him anything.

So far, all I've managed to learn was why Dusty didn't find my boots in Vash's bag. Vash told me that my boots were inside the package that he mailed out, just before the funeral.

Perhaps I'll manage to ask Vash about his definition of friendship tomorrow afternoon.

Vash is recovering, again. The bruises are nearly faded from his face, and this morning he was able to walk all the way around the outside of the house without stumbling or running out of breath even though he still needed to lean on me a lot. His health is about where it was, just before the funeral.

When he heard that we plan to attend church tomorrow, he expressed an interest in joining us. I hope that nothing will happen to hurt him again!

.

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_Author's Note: Sorry it took me so long to do an update. "Murphy's Law" has been working overtime, hugely! Hoping that trend is over now... thanks for your patience._ :)


	9. Friends

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**: _I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": they belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 9: Friends**

_Year 0092 month 2 day 17_

When I awoke this morning, Vash was just returning from his morning trip to the restroom. He had one hand on the hallway wall, and was looking toward the floor with a frown of concentration. He was walking slowly, but he was moving a little more naturally than he had yesterday, and a little less as if he was in serious pain.

With his broken ribs, that was unlikely to change quickly. It would probably take him several weeks before he was moving normally again.

Although he still wore his pajamas, Vash had already shaved. He'd also brushed or combed his hair so that it stood straight up from his head … again. I think he looks better when his hair isn't standing up like broom-bristles. But it's his hair, so he can make it look anyhow he likes.

Vash had started wearing a pajama top on Thursday morning, in addition to his pajama bottoms and bandages that he'd already been wearing. He had changed into "daytime clothes" before his first walk outside, on Friday afternoon. He'd changed out of his pajamas again yesterday, just before breakfast arrived.

He wouldn't let me help him change his clothes. While he changed was the only time when he would close his bedroom door.

It took him a long time to change, because he had to be careful of his injuries. Even so, he could still finish changing more quickly than I could. Because both of his hands work.

"Good morning," I said to him from my doorway, as I rubbed at my still-sleepy eyes.

He raised his face and smiled at me, with the usual result. I tried to ignore the heat I felt burning in my face, since I couldn't do anything about it.

"Good morning, Martha," he said amiably.

"Since you've already cleaned up some, I'm guessing that you might still want to go to church with us?" I said.

"I should go," he said, and nodded.

"Should?" I said, a little confused. "If you don't want to go..."

A corner of his mouth quirked upward. It shaped his mouth into his lopsided grin.

"I can't let them forget 'the second man' quite yet," he said softly. "I'm sure they'll forget me soon enough, but I want them to continue remembering the lesson after I leave."

"I will never forget you," I said loyally. I quickly added, hopefully before another blush could take over my face, "Is there anything I can do to help you get ready?"

"After breakfast," he said, "if it's not too much trouble, then some assistance with my shoes. If I don't have to bend over so much, it would help a lot."

"In that case, I should help with your socks, too," I said.

He frowned. "Please don't take this the wrong way," he said carefully, "but wouldn't that be a pain in the backside, since you only have one working hand?"

"Sally brought me a gadget, a few years ago, that makes socks easy to get on," I said, smiling. "Here, I'll show you."

I turned and hobbled to the place where I kept it by the foot of my bed. He came to stand in my doorway, and watched quietly. I showed him how it sat solidly on the floor, and could be made to pinch one side of the sock as a clothespin would. That allowed me to hold the other side of the sock with my good hand, while slipping a foot in.

"See how easy that is?" I said, looking up from my task to smile at him again.

"It's worked metal," he said thoughtfully, "like something a blacksmith would make."

"Yes," I said. "I don't know where Sally comes up with the ideas for these things, but they sure do come in handy."

"Like the stand you put wet dishes into, when you towel them dry," he said. "I've noticed that you have several unusual blacksmithed items scattered all around the house. They all seem designed to make living with one hand easier. How long has Sally been bringing these things to you?"

I thought about it briefly, and then answered. "They do help, a lot. And... she's been bringing them, on and off, for about five years," I said.

Vash still looked thoughtful. "Didn't you say that Fred is a blacksmith's apprentice?" he said. "How long has he been doing that?"

"About six years," I said.

At first, I didn't see how Vash's question about Fred's blacksmithing had anything to do with anything. Then I mentally connected the dots...

"Wait a minute! Don't you go on thinking what I see you're thinking, you hear?" I said. "Fred may be more polite to me, in person, than some of the others. But he still ridicules me, when I'm not around."

"What makes you say that?" Vash asked. He sounded only curious, not disbelieving.

"Last summer," I said, blushing from shame, "Fred broke his leg while trying to ride a Thomas using only one hand. When they were taking him to the hospital, to get his broken bone set, he was grumbling about me. Different people, who were there, have all said that he kept repeating my name."

Vash's eyebrows raised a little. "Oh, really," he said. Then he looked thoughtful again. "Maybe he wasn't mocking you, though. There could be another explanation."

"Yeah, well, there might," I conceded, "but I sure can't think of any. As far as I can recall, Fred never even spoke to me before he came with his mother for breakfast on the morning before the funeral."

"Maybe he's just shy, like Mr. Darcy," Vash said, grinning

"You're teasing me!" I said, both delighted by the novelty and a little embarrassed by the subject matter.

"Yes," Vash said, "and I'm also making a point."

"Mr. Darcy was proud," I said, "even if he wasn't arrogant like some people mistakenly thought of him."

"That didn't stop him from liking Elizabeth," Vash said.

"Maybe not," I said, "but it sure messed up his ability to tell her about it."

Vash's fading grin suddenly grew wider. "Exactly my point," he said. "And Fred is the only young man who has come here, helping to bring a meal."

"His sisters were probably just busy that morning, perhaps with his younger brother," I said. "Little Danny wasn't among the children that Sally and I were watching in the jail that day, so he might have been out at the O'Dell farm. If he was, the poor little fellow is probably frightened half out of his mind. I noticed that they didn't have him at the funeral, nor was the eldest of Fred's three sisters there. Come to think on it, most of the little kids who weren't at the jail that day weren't at the funeral, either."

"If only the eldest sister was needed to tend the child during the funeral," Vash said, "then it seems unlikely that more would be needed during breakfast. And hadn't you said that you've been learning your schoolwork at home for eight years? That's a long time for Fred to remember that you're smart."

I opened my mouth to protest, but without any clear idea of what I would say, when there was a knock on the front door downstairs.

Relieved, I said, "That's probably breakfast. Shall we go down and see?"

It was indeed breakfast, brought by another concerned and curious townswoman... and she was accompanied by her daughter, not her son.

Dusty came down as we were setting the table. He was dressed, but he hadn't shaved nor was his hair combed. That was how everyone who brought breakfast to us, except for Clara Brown, had seen him.

I immersed myself in the flurry of activity swirling around me, while trying to avoid thinking about any of the things that Vash had just said. However, my mind doesn't like to avoid things. Instead, it wants to pick at them. With nothing else to focus my thoughts upon, my mind kept turning to things Vash had said, just before breakfast arrived.

I was convinced that Vash must be mistaken about Fred. He was drawing conclusions from unrelated coincidences. That was all. I had to admit that, without any other information, those unrelated coincidences could look a bit like they might be connected. However, those unconnected circumstances couldn't possibly mean anything like what Vash seemed to think they might mean.

Maybe Sally had commissioned Fred to make those things. Buying from Fred would be less expensive than buying from Mr. Brown. It would also give Fred an opportunity to improve his craft. That's the type of thoughtful thing that Sally would be likely to do.

I quickly set aside Vash's ridiculous ideas about Fred, and recalled his earlier statement about how he expected that everyone in the village would soon forget him. That made my insides twist. It sounded like he meant to leave, soon, and worse – never return.

Vash had spoken again, briefly, about wishing to continue his interrupted pursuit of the murderer. From the way that he set his jaw, and the look in his eyes, as he spoke of that pursuit... I knew that he would never allow anything (or anyone) to stop him from catching and dealing with that other man.

I'd seen that same expression on his face when he decided to sit up, or to use the bathroom unaided, or to get dressed, or to walk a few steps without leaning on me. No matter how many times his body failed him, he would pause to catch his breath – and then he would try again. There was a determination about him, in those moments, that could not be overcome by anything. He would not stop, until he succeeded.

So, as much as I disliked it, and as much as it hurt to think about it, I knew that Vash would leave us. Vash would go out into the desert to pursue the murderer, until he was brought to justice. That pursuit was his first priority.

However, if he had any plans after that, he never mentioned them. I hoped that I might encourage him to make some plans about returning here.

I would miss Vash when he went away. In fact, I almost missed him already.

There must have been some amount of small talk around the table as we ate, but I can't recall a single word of it. I was pondering what I could say that might convince Vash that we would never forget him. I also thought about encouraging him to return to us, after his other work was done. I just couldn't puzzle out what to say to him about it.

After breakfast, we all climbed the stairs and distributed to our various rooms to prepare for church.

Since George Hansen's wife had brought dinner yesterday night, she went back with a message requesting that Ike would bring his wagon and give us a ride to church. (Ike is her brother-in-law, from being her husband's brother. He is brother in law to Dusty and me, from being married to our sister.) Dusty and I both expected the wagon to arrive punctually, probably already carrying Jane and their five newly-adopted children.

We all hurried to get ready, so that Ike wouldn't be stuck waiting for us. Since Ike tended to get impatient and grouchy, we were highly motivated to be ready when he arrived.

Vash got himself dressed, and then he opened his door. I was nearly ready, so when I heard his door open, I hurried to finish dressing. I opened my own door as soon as I had my dress set to rights. Then I took the sock-helper gadget into his room, and helped him into his socks and shoes.

Thankfully, he'd not chosen to wear his boots from his "1001 straps and buckles" outfit. Fastening those would have taken longer than using the gadget that helped me tie shoes.

Vash was wearing the same clothes today as he'd worn to the funeral. It was a good thing that I'd gotten the stains out! I was glad that he didn't mind wearing those clothes again after I'd tended to them.

As anticipated, Ike arrived punctually. Vash, Dusty and I were ready to go when he arrived, so we all climbed into the back of the wagon with the kids.

Our village's church is right by the Plant. When we arrived, Vash caught at my shoulder and tipped his head toward the Plant. So when we got off Ike's wagon, I wasn't surprised that Vash began walking toward the Plant instead of toward the church.

"We'll miss Sunday School," I said. I'd thought that he wanted to attend.

"Hopefully, God will forgive you, if you miss it today," he said lightly. Then, more softly, as if he were saying a prayer or an oath, he added, "If not, then may He put all the blame and punishment on me, where it belongs."

Did Vash really think that missing Sunday School was such a terrible sin? And did he truly think God worked like that?

"I'm sure that God would forgive us for missing Sunday School," I said, "but can't this wait until after?"

"Maybe," he said, "but I've already put it off for so long... waiting longer would be worse than rude, especially now that I'm so close."

"I don't understand," I said.

"Come on," he said. "It's easier to show than explain."

"Okay," I said.

He wasn't leaning on me as heavily as before. He'd returned to linking arms when we walked around the house, instead of leaning his arm across my shoulders. I had gradually become more like a cane than like crutches, and he kept leaning on me less and less.

We walked into the fenced-off area that surrounded the huge bulb. As we drew closer, the bulb began to glow. At first, I thought that glow was only my imagination, but it grew bright enough that, by the time we reached the bulb, I knew the glow was real.

Vash let go of me, and placed his hands on the glass. "Hello there, sister," he said softly.

The orb inside the bulb opened, and a woman with wings came out. She smiled, and moved toward him until she could place her hands against his, though on her own side of the glass.

She wasn't wearing anything. With few exceptions, she looked much like any ordinary woman. She had wings. Her eyes were strange, lacking irises. Her wrists and ankles were unusually thin. If she came out of the bulb, where she floated, she probably could not support her own weight enough to walk (or even crawl) with such slender limbs.

"Yetta, meet Martha," Vash said. "Martha, this is Yetta."

"Pleased to meet you," I said, nodding toward her.

She looked at me and nodded, before returning her attention to Vash. I felt more as if I was in a dream than as if I was seeing something which was really happening.

"Vash," I said softly, "How did she get in there? Is she an angel?"

"She _is_ the Plant, Martha," he said. "I can see that your village really has been trying to take good care of her. She has no black hair at all."

"Black hair?" I said, puzzled.

I'd never had any idea that a lady lived inside that bulb. This was a lot to take in all at once. It changed so many things!

"Instead of turning grey, as your hair would," he said, "when Plants run low on energy (which we need to do those things that only Plants can do), our hair turns black. After that happens, if we continue spending our internal Plant energy, we will die."

I looked at her, and saw that her hair really was all pale. I felt relieved by that. There seemed to be a bluish cast inside the bulb, so it was difficult to tell what color her hair and skin would be without it. Even so, she was radiantly beautiful.

"She's beautiful," I said, impulsively saying that part of my thoughts.

"Yes," he said. "Over the years, I've visited most of the Plants on this world. Every one whom I've met is beautiful in her own way."

My gaze was held by the Plant-lady, but I could hear a smile in his voice as he spoke.

"Do you mean that every Plant bulb has a lady living inside it?" I said, surprised. "Are they all named Yetta?"

"The lady _is_ the Plant," he repeated patiently, "not the bulb, nor the orb that she may spend most of her time inside. And each has her own name."

"I never knew that," I said softly. "Can she understand us?"

"Yes," he said. "If you speak to her, she will understand."

"Thank you, Yetta, for all that you give us," I said bashfully.

She looked away from Vash long enough to nod at me again. She smiled, slightly.

"Can she speak?" I asked.

"She speaks with her mind, or with gestures, or through the computer," he said.

"It's too bad that nobody can hear her," I said sadly.

"I can," Vash said. "Martha, I'm more like her than like you."

I blinked, and managed to look away from Yetta just enough to see Vash's face. He was still looking at Yetta. There was such openness in his facial expression! He couldn't possibly be lying, or, at least... not lying on purpose. He might be mistaken, though.

I thought about what he'd said. He'd called her "sister." He'd said "our hair" and "we" when he talked about Plants' hair turning black.

"It sounds like you might be saying..." I began, but the idea seemed so strange that I slowed down and stopped before I could bring myself to put it all into words.

"Yes," he said. "I'm a Plant, not an ordinary human like you. I tried to warn you that I'm older than I look. I'm almost as old as Yetta."

"But she's been alive since..." again, I suddenly found the words difficult to say.

"Since before the Great Fall, yes," he said. "She helped power one of the ships, before they all crashed here."

I looked at Yetta again, and saw that her attention was still on Vash.

"Has she been worried about you, too?" I asked.

"A little," he said, "though mostly because she sensed that I was nearby but I had not come to visit her. She lives and thinks differently from ordinary humans, but she's not so different that you can't be friends."

To be friends with a Plant-lady, someone whom I hadn't even known existed until today – the idea was a bit mind-blowing. But there was something about Yetta's face, and a kind look in her smile, that made it seem possible... even with her wings and her strange eyes.

"How can I be her friend?" I said. "I can't go in there, and she probably can't come out."

"Just visit her sometimes, like you're doing now," he said. "Put your hands on the glass, gently – don't tap – and then speak her name, or sing to her. Even if you never say anything else, only her name... she will understand, and she will appreciate the visit."

"I think I can do that, at least sometimes," I said.

"Good," he said.

I was quiet for a long time, thinking over everything I'd just learned as I continued looking at Yetta.

Finally I said, "If you're a Plant, Vash, do you also have angel wings?"

Somehow, the idea of Vash with angel wings didn't seem as incongruous as that same idea would seem with Dusty, or Ike, or anybody else that I knew.

He laughed. "I suppose I might have Plant wings, like she does," Vash said. "I really don't know. I've never tried to use any abilities that Plants have, but normal people don't. I've been content to live like any ordinary human."

"You're not ordinary," I said. "You're much more kind, and generous, and..." Suddenly there was a lump in my throat, and I couldn't say anything more.

"There are plenty of people like that," he said. "You, for one."

"Me?" I said, surprised.

"You were a friend to me," he said, "before any one else in this village would even consider the _possibility_ that I might not have killed all of your friends and family."

I stood silently, because I couldn't think of anything to say. I just listened.

"You were the only one who pleaded with them to stop beating me, and instead to look after my injuries," he continued. "And you didn't stop there! You stayed with me, both in the jail and at the hospital. You've continued looking after me, and helping me, even when it hurt you. You've more than proven yourself a friend to me, Martha. I owe you."

All of my carefully-prepared questions were useless. I hadn't needed to ask him anything. He'd just told me what I needed to know.

"You don't owe me anything! I just tried to do what was right," I said. "Now, I'm happy to do whatever you need. It's nice to have you around, since you're such good company."

As soon as I said the words, they sounded lame even in my own ears. I wished I could think of better words to express all that I thought and felt. Unfortunately, those words were the best that I could think of at the time.

"Me?" Vash said, sounding surprised. "I'm about as ordinary as it gets, aside from the fact that I'm not exactly a regular human."

"I'm still getting used to the idea that you might be something other than a normal human," I admitted, "but you were never merely 'ordinary.' You're someone special."

"I am nothing and nobody," he said softly. "I'm less than ordinary, and less than human."

"Not less, more!" I protested.

He took a hand off the glass to pat my shoulder. "It's kind of you to be so loyal," he said, "but you've only known me for a few days. In time, you might change your mind."

"I don't think so," I said firmly. "I've seen you in the worst possible conditions, and you... well, you shine. You're a good person, Vash. I'm proud to be your friend."

"Thank you," he said softly, "for saying that and meaning it."

We were both silent for a time, as we kept company with each other and with Yetta.

"We should probably get back," he said. "Sunday School only lasts for an hour, doesn't it? If so, it's about time for the more formal church service to begin."

"Has it been an hour already?" I said.

"Nearly," Vash said.

"Then we should return," I said. "We can visit Yetta again after, or next week."

"Farewell, for now," he said to Yetta. He turned to me and said, "Let's go."

Yetta waved, and then withdrew back into her orb. The bulb's glow quickly faded.

We left the area surrounding the Plant, and went back to the church. People were beginning to fill the benches, and we chose seats in about the middle of the building.

The music was unable to stir me from my thoughts about the visit to the Plant. I had too much to think about. I couldn't really pay attention, not as I should. It still felt unreal, as if I'd walked into and out of a dream - without going to sleep, or waking up.

The sermon, most of which I was too preoccupied to hear, was about the parable of "The Good Samaritan."

That subject was probably chosen to honor "the Second Man." I turned my head and smiled at him, and was rewarded with an answering smile. I looked quickly at my lap, and waited for the heat to fade from my face.

For what seemed the hundredth time, I hoped he hadn't noticed that I'd blushed.

I remembered that, in the time it was written, a "Samaritan" was a half-breed, an outcast. Yet that outcast had been the only one to help the man who'd been robbed. Just as Vash – an outsider, to this village – had been the one to help Hank O'Dell and Mildred McCall. Even though he came too late to save Mildred's life, he had tried.

Vash's arrival had also driven off the murderer.

My thoughts went back to pondering the idea that Vash might not be the same kind of human as everyone else. He said he was a Plant, like Yetta. But he wasn't in a bulb, and his eyes looked like human eyes. Oh, his irises were a moderately unusual color, but, aside from that detail, they looked just as human as the eyes I saw every time I looked into a mirror.

I wasn't sure what to believe. After thinking about it during the sermon, I decided to visit the bulb again. I would find out if Yetta would come out again. If she did, that might help me to know what to think.

I reached that conclusion just as the closing hymn finished. I listened with quiet reverence as the benediction was pronounced, and rose to leave along with everyone else.

"I see someone I'd like a word with," Vash said softly, near my ear. "I'll meet you out front in a few."

Before I could respond, I heard, "Maffa!" behind me. It was Danny Turner, with his chubby little arms stretched up toward me.

I carefully gathered up the toddler into my arms, resting his seat against my left forearm and spreading my right hand against his back as he hugged me. I wistfully watched while Vash leaned noticeably, if not heavily, on the bench-backs with each step. It took a bit before I realized that he was working his way toward Fred.

Oh, no! Was Vash still thinking about that nonsense he'd come up with this morning, about Fred?

"Maffa!" Danny said by my ear, sounding happy.

"I'm glad to see you, too, Danny," I said gently.

I was fond of Danny, as I was fond of all the little children in our village. I couldn't help it. These little ones could be both tiring and frustrating, at times, but they were also endearing. I hugged the little fellow, though still wishing that I'd been able to dissuade Vash from going to talk with Fred. I was nervous about what Vash might say, if those silly ideas from earlier this morning were still in his head.

I saw several people begin to surround Vash, and felt a smile spreading over my face. Maybe Vash wouldn't find time to talk about anything awkward with Fred, after all.

"I should have known," Mrs. Turner said. Her voice came from behind me.

I turned around so that I could see her. She was smiling.

"Danny's been asking for you all week," she said. "Would you be willing to watch him this afternoon, so that my family can all assist with the harvest? I'm sure he will be fine, with you and the second man both looking after him. One of us will come to get him this evening, if you agree. It would really be a big help to us, Martha. Will you? Please?"

"I... I suppose I could," I said uncertainly.

"Oh, thank you!" Mrs. Turner said. "Will you need a ride home?"

"Ike and Jane brought us," I said. "I think they plan to take us home, too."

"I'll just put Danny's things into their wagon, then," she said. "I really appreciate this!"

"Okay, anytime," I found myself saying as she walked away.

Danny wouldn't let go of my neck, so I began hobbling toward the front doors. I looked toward Vash. He remained surrounded by well-wishers, most of whom were the village's unmarried females around 19-26 years old. Fred was halfway across the room from him.

I found myself grinning with relief. Vash wasn't very likely to find any time to chat with Fred, not with so many girls fluttering around him!

Several of the youngest children were missing from the service, along with several mothers and older sisters. Everyone must still be nervous, after the attack.

It wasn't long before Ike had all of us loaded into the back of his wagon, except for Vash.

As Ike asked, "Where in tarnation has that 'Second Man' got himself off to?" Vash suddenly appeared in the church's doorway.

Dusty slid off the end of the wagon, and helped Vash get in. As soon as both were seated, we started back for home.

When we arrived at the house, Dusty tried to help with Danny. But the sleepy baby refused to let go of my neck. So, instead, my brother carried Danny's things in for me. Ike got off the driver's seat to help Vash get inside the house.

I was relieved that nothing had happened to cause Vash any further setbacks, at least not during that trip. We'd gotten him to church, and back again, safely.

Ike took Vash to the bigger couch in the front room, the one that sat under the window. Vash sat down and sighed, as Ike nodded a farewell to each of us and then returned to his family waiting in the wagon.

I didn't know if anyone was bringing lunch. However, I did know that we didn't want to have a fully recharged toddler when that lunch came. He wouldn't be able to hold still long enough to eat. So I set sleepy little Danny down in the middle of the front room.

I sat on the floor, by the small couch with its back resting against the side of the stairs. I rested my back against the front of that littler couch, and crossed my legs so that each knee rested on the opposite leg's foot. I smoothed my skirt to cover my lap and knees, and then extended my right hand toward my young charge.

"Danny," I said playfully, wiggling my fingers toward him, "I can't reach you."

Danny's sleepy expression transformed from a yawn to a grin. He giggled, let go of his blanket, and pushed himself up from his sitting position onto his feet. He toddled to about a finger's length out of my reach, and giggled again. Then he dashed toward me as fast as his chubby little legs would carry him, giggling loudly.

I caught him and tickled his ribs and stomach just long enough to elicit shrieks of delight and more giggles, and then I released him so that he could back away if he wanted to. He did run off, but I knew that wouldn't last long.

"Aww, I can't reach you," I said, pretending to be sad. I extended my right arm and wiggled my fingers toward him again.

We continued playing Danny's favorite game. I repeated my protests about being unable to reach him, whenever he moved away. He would always come nearer to me, grinning or giggling, to get more tickles.

Sometimes he'd crawl backwards when he came near, so that I could tickle his feet. Other times, he'd reach out a hand and I would make a show of tickling that. Most times, though, he got his body into range so that I could tickle his ribs or stomach.

Dusty had gone upstairs to change into work clothes. He would be helping with the harvest this afternoon, as he had on his other days off from being a deputy. Vash continued sitting on the larger couch, watching and smiling as I played with Danny.

Suddenly Danny realized that there was another adult in the room, who wasn't playing with him. Apparently, the little fellow felt this was a situation in need of fixing.

He boldly toddled over to Vash and declared, "Maffa cat weech. You cat weech!"

Vash's eyebrows went up a little, but he was still smiling.

Before Vash could respond, or I could tell him that he didn't need to play the game if he didn't want to, there was a knock on the door.

"I'll get that," I said.

I began the process of getting up, by leaning forward onto my right hand and my knees, when an unhappy sound came from my small guest.

"Maffa cat weech!" Danny protested.

"We can play more, after I take care of our visitor at the door," I told him.

"Up, Maffa," Danny said. He came toward me with his arms outstretched.

"Okay," I said. "Let me get up first, and then I can pick you up."

I shifted my balance from right hand and both knees to right hand and right knee, while moving my left leg to get that foot firmly placed on the ground. When that was accomplished, I moved my right hand off the floor and onto the seat of the couch, and began pushing myself up so that I could get my malformed right foot under me.

"I can get the door," Vash said. "You look after Danny."

I glanced up to see that he was already standing, and moving toward the door.

"Thank you," I said.

I finished getting up, and gathered the baby into my arms as I'd promised him I would do.

Vash opened the door for Miriam Epstein, and her daughter Jael.

"Good afternoo- doughnuts!" he said happily.

From half behind him, I saw her swat Vash's hand away from the platter of pastries.

"Those are for _after_ lunch," she said, a little sharply.

"Welcome Mrs. Epstein," I said, shifting my hold on Danny to balance better. "Am I smelling your Thomas-and-dumpling stew?"

"Yes you are," she said, smiling. "It's an old family recipe, that's supposed to be especially good for people who are healing."

"It's good anytime!" I said fervently.

She laughed, and relaxed a little.

"I didn't see you at church," Vash said. "I hope all of your family are well?"

She gave him an odd look, and began to grow tense again, so I answered for her.

"The Epsteins don't attend church," I said. "We all follow the same God, and even share most of the same Scriptures. But we honor Him in different ways. Our village is too small to have its own synagogue. So our Jewish families meet in the Epsteins' cafe on Friday evenings, and listen to their service on satellite radio. Christians attend church on Sundays."

"I'm sorry," Vash said contritely, "I didn't know."

Mrs. Epstein looked thoughtful for a moment, and then she relaxed again. "Of course you wouldn't know," she said kindly. "Martha's a good girl. She helps a newcomer to understand, and she says it with as much respect for our ways as for her own."

I felt heat in my face as they all smiled at me.

"We... should probably get the food to the kitchen, and eat it while it's hot," I said.

"Yes!" Vash said. "I'll even eat some stew before I eat any doughnuts."

"Donuts!" Danny said, and reached for the platter.

We all laughed while I moved away enough to keep the doughnuts out of his reach.

"Is that Eliza Turner's little boy?" Mrs. Epstein asked.

"Yes," I said, "it's Danny. She asked me to look after him today, while her family helps with the harvest."

"We will be helping with the harvest, too, after we finish lunch," she said.

"Maybe I should..." Vash began.

"...stay here and not risk tearing open that cut place in your side again," I said firmly.

"But -" Vash tried again.

"She's right," Mrs. Epstein said. "You get better. For you, other work can wait."

"Let's go to the kitchen," I said, "and eat some of that wonderful-smelling stew."

"Good idea," Mrs. Epstein said.

That lunch went much as expected. Dusty came downstairs in his work clothes, and helped set the table. We put the doughnuts on the stove, and the stew on the table.

Danny kept wriggling and wanting the doughnuts instead of the stew, and Vash was nearly as bad. However, among the bunch of us, we managed to make the whole stew disappear – and then the doughnuts vanished, too.

I think that a good time was had by all. At least, the Epsteins were both smiling when they left with their freshly emptied and washed dishes.

Dusty set off with them, to join the other villagers in working on the harvest.

I took Danny into the downstairs bathroom by the kitchen. I spread a towel over the counter, and changed his diaper. Vash looked on, offering to help if needed.

Since Danny was wearing a plastic-coated fabric wrap with snaps, which held his diaper in place, I could manage changing his diaper. However, because the little fellow had a much worse than usual case of the wiggles, Vash's help to keep the energetic toddler on the towel-covered counter was most welcome.

When we returned to the front room, Vash lowered himself to the floor in front of the large couch. He grinned as he arranged his long legs so that each knee rested on the opposite leg's foot, and then he extended his arms.

Danny squirmed to get down, and I gave him his wish. Soon he was playing "can't reach" with both of us. Of course, Vash did a better job because he had two functional hands. The baby didn't play favorites, but happily ricocheted between us nearly all afternoon.

When Danny finally grew tired, Vash changed him. When that was finished, I laid Danny down to nap on the small couch. As soon as he was somewhat settled, I pulled a chair from the kitchen and set it by the sleepy baby, with the back against the couch, to form a makeshift crib. Vash saw what I did and quickly brought a second chair.

Then we both sat on the larger couch. We watched, as little Danny drifted off to sleep.

"What do you know of the Great Fall?" Vash had a sad, faraway look as he spoke.

"Several ships crashed on this world," I said. "Something must have gone wrong, because the ships crashed instead of landing. We don't know if the people chose to come here, or if there was some problem that made them try to land here. Either way, the survivors became our ancestors and have done their best to build a home here."

"The problem began about two years earlier," Vash said, "when Rem found my brother and I under our mother's bulb."

"That's a terrible thing to say!" I said. "Even if you're not an ordinary human, you're still a person! Please, don't talk about my friend that way, okay?"

One corner of his mouth quirked upward, and his pale cheeks turned a vivid pink. He scratched at the back of his neck, while looking downward.

"Rem would say things like that," he said softly. "She always treated us like people, even though she knew what we were. Many others have been far less kind."

Vash was sitting to my left, so I reached over to rest my right hand on his right forearm.

"I'm sorry that people treated you badly," I said gently, "but you couldn't have deserved their cruelty any more than you deserved what Ike, Dusty, and the others did. Please, don't let yourself think that you're not a person just because someone was mean to you!"

"It was my brother who caused the ships to fall, Martha," he said, his sorrow deepening into anguish in his voice as he spoke.

I gasped, and stiffened a little. I didn't move, or say anything. I was almost afraid to breathe. I waited, tensely, to hear what else he would say.

"He reprogrammed the ship's computer, and made the ships plummet toward the planet," Vash continued, after a pause. "Rem... only knew that the ships had begun to fall. She put both of us into an escape pod. But she stayed behind, to try to save the lives of all the people who were in cryo sleep on the ships. If not for her efforts, nobody would have survived the Great Fall. She saved thousands of lives, but, in the process, she lost her own. That was how she died. My brother... he ... his actions caused her death."

When he remained silent for a time, I finally managed to say, "I'm so very sorry, Vash."

"My brother used to be like Danny," he said sadly, "but he changed. I didn't realize how he had changed, not in time to stop him. I failed Rem. I failed all the people who died that day. I've failed so many times... I failed again, when I arrived here too late."

I shook my head, but he spoke again before I could.

"I must keep trying," he said, sounding both sad and determined. "I must catch up with him, and find a way to stop him from hurting anyone else."

I hugged his arm, and leaned my head on his shoulder. "I wish you didn't have to go," I said softly. "I'll miss you. You're the best friend I've ever had."

"That's sure to change," he said. "Your new hand and foot should arrive before the end of the year. Then nobody will have any more shabby excuses to pretend that you're anything less than the amazing person that you are."

The heat I felt in my face was extreme. I lifted my head off his shoulder and opened my mouth to protest. He was giving me far more praise than I deserved.

Before I could find any words to say to him, someone arrived with dinner. I was too distracted, between thinking about everything Vash had said, and taking care of Danny, to pay attention to the conversation or even to recall what we ate or who brought it.

After dinner, and changing Danny's diaper again, we played more of "can't reach" and similar games until nearly sundown.

"Aw dun cat weech," Danny declared. He picked up his blanket and climbed into my lap. I cradled him in my arms, and he was soon asleep.

"You're good with children," Vash said. "Someday, you should have some of your own."

"I …" I began, sputtering, but I got no farther. I could feel intense heat flooding into my face and neck and even my ears. I couldn't think of anything to say.

I was spared the need for a response by a knock on the door.

"That's probably Mrs. Turner, coming for Danny," I managed to say.

"I'll get it," Vash said kindly. "Your arms are full."

"Thank you," I said.

I was mistaken. It wasn't Mrs. Turner, though the person who came had arrived to collect Danny and take him home.

When Vash opened the door, it was Fred standing on the other side.

"Ah, just the man I wanted to see," Vash said, almost cheerfully. "May I have a word with you, please?"

Fred nodded, and they stepped outside. Vash closed the door behind them.

I sat alone in the front room, holding a sleeping toddler, and wanting badly to eavesdrop. Unfortunately, the murmur of their voices, muffled and distorted by the walls between us, was all that I could hear.

I looked down at Danny, and remembered the last thing Vash had said just before Fred arrived. I'd never really thought about having any children of my own. I hadn't imagined that anyone would want a crippled wife. I found myself wondering if such a thing could be possible, as I sat alone with the sleeping baby in the darkening house.

Then I remembered the nonsense Vash had been speculating about, regarding Fred, and I blushed again. I wondered, again, what they were saying. I still couldn't hear their words.

Eventually, they came in and Fred gently lifted his little brother out of my arms.

"Thanks," he said, and nodded at me. Then he turned away from me, with his sleeping brother in his arms, and left. Vash closed the door behind him.

I wanted to ask Vash what he and Fred had talked about, but I couldn't think of how to ask that wouldn't sound too snoopy. I fidgeted, trying to think of anything else to say.

Thankfully, Vash volunteered some of the information I craved.

"He wasn't mocking you, Martha," Vash said.

"What do you mean?" I asked softly, feeling a little confused and a lot flustered.

"When he was trying to ride a Thomas one-handed," Vash said, "Fred was only trying to see if he could do it that way. He thought that some day he might need to use one of his hands to hold something, for example: to make a delivery. That was all."

"But I've been told he kept repeating my name," I said. "Wasn't that mocking me?"

"Fred says that he doesn't recall saying your name, after the Thomas threw him off and his leg got broken," Vash said. "However, he does remember thinking you could have done it better than he had, because you were more practiced at doing things one-handed."

I sat quietly, staring blankly at the gathering darkness. Again, I didn't know what to say.

Dusty returned shortly thereafter, and we all went upstairs for the night.


	10. Promises

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**: _I do not own Trigun, "Vash the Stampede," "Doc," or "Milly Thompson": they belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 10: Promises**

_Year 0092 month 2 day 17, after nightfall_

I had trouble sleeping that night. There were far too many thoughts racing around in my head for sleep to be possible.

Oh, I was tired. It had been what I've often heard called "a long day" ... partly from having so many things packed into it, and partly from spending several hours entertaining a very energetic young toddler.

I'd made liberal use of games like "can't reach," so that Danny did more moving around than I did. Even so, by the time that Fred came to collect his little brother, I'd felt almost as ready for a nap as Danny had.

Yet those new ideas that Vash had talked about – they were the most difficult part.

The man seemed to honestly believe that he was a Plant – and over 100 years old, no less! That was crazy! It was absolutely, positively, _completely_ insane!

… yet Vash did not behave like someone whose mind was lost. Aside from his claims about his age and his ancestry, he talked as rationally as anybody else.

In some ways, he talked more rationally than most people. This was especially true when he talked about love and peace. Vash never quoted directly from the Bible, but he sure spoke of the same principles in very practical terms. His clear, straightforward explanations about how to show love in everyday life, and how to live peacefully, could put many preachers' sermons to shame.

And, unlike several preachers I'd heard about, Vash fully practiced what he preached. He made no exceptions for himself. Nobody else I knew had ever "turned the other cheek" as thoroughly as he had! Even though he got badly hurt, he hadn't fought back.

Come to think of it, Vash's blood was every bit as red as mine. He got hurt, and suffered, the same as any other man. When the doctors had operated on him, they hadn't found anything unusual – if they had, we would all have known about it by now.

What should I believe? What _could_ I believe? I didn't know.

Maybe, during his beating, Vash had gotten a knock on the head which confused some of his memories. Hank and Mildred had both said that he and the murderer looked a lot alike, so maybe the other man really was his brother.

Maybe his parents were Plant engineers, who died in some kind of explosive mishap, and Rem had taken him in afterward... That might explain some of his affinity for Plants, especially if his adoptive mother had also been a Plant engineer, mightn't it?

But that didn't explain his ideas about the Great Fall, nor the manner in which he said he could speak with Yetta and other Plants.

It was all so confusing!

I wrestled with such thoughts, without drawing a finger's width closer to any solution.

I heard Dusty leave his room and visit the restroom, and then return. After awhile, I made my own visit to the restroom.

However, tending that need did not help me to sleep. I went back to my bed and flopped down. Again I found myself quietly listening to the crickets, and trying to make sense out of all the many strange things that Vash said and did.

Unfortunately, with my weary mind, I couldn't find a way to make any sense out of it. Since I couldn't put it out of my mind, sleep fled far from me.

I was just beginning to think about lighting my lamp, and reading something to distract myself (which might, possibly, help me to forget these imponderables long enough to sleep), when I heard a match struck in the room across the hall.

I sat up and looked through the doors as Vash lit the lamp on his bedside table. I watched in stunned silence as he took off his pajama top and began putting on his outfit with the 1001 buckles and straps.

It wasn't until he'd finished putting his chest-piece on, and he began untying the drawstring that held his pajama bottoms cinched around his waist, that I regained the power of movement and speech.

I lurched across the hallway as he stood up, and threw my arms around his shoulders.

"No!" I said, trying to keep my voice down to avoid waking Dusty. "You can't leave, not yet! You're not healed enough yet!"

I felt Vash catch his pajama bottoms before they could fall much, pull them back into place, re-tie the drawstring, and then, slowly, put his arms around my shoulders.

"I can't stay, Martha," he said softly. "I told you why. Even if I hadn't, I think you always knew that I would have to leave here some day. You're smart enough to figure that out."

"But you can barely walk," I protested, "you still have to lean on me. You couldn't get far, or do anything about that other man - not as you are now. You need to heal more, first!"

"If I can't walk, I'll crawl," he said. He spoke gently, but I could still feel an incredible depth of determination in his voice and words.

"Not yet," I repeated, clinging to him even more tightly, "and not without even saying good-bye! You're the best friend I've ever had – please, I can't lose you, not so soon! I just lost Mildred..."

Unable to suppress my feelings while I was so tired, I started crying. "Please..."

He was silent as I sobbed against his shoulder. He gently patted my shoulder as he continued hugging me. When my sobs eventually began to subside, he sighed.

"I'll stay just a little longer," he said. "But then I really must go."

"Thank you," I said.

I backed out of the hug, embarrassed, and wiped at my eyes with my pajama sleeve.

"I know you can't stay here forever," I said sadly. "I understand that you need to stop that other man from hurting people. But you have to be healthier, first. You're still hurting. I can see that your movements are still painfully stiff, and ... and ... and I can't bear the thought of you collapsing again, somewhere out in the desert, like you did in our jail cell, but with nobody there to help you."

I sniffled and wiped at my eyes again. He was silent.

"Maybe," I said more softly, "someday, if you find yourself in this area again, maybe you could stop by for a visit? Even if you couldn't stay long, it would be so nice to see you again... even if it's only for a little while..."

"It could be a very long time before I pass this way again," he said, very softly. "The only one still here, from any of my prior visits, was Mildred. She was about Danny's age, the last time I was here. I wasn't even sure if I recognized her, until she said her name. She didn't remember me at all."

I looked up, raising my gaze from the floor, to see his face. I was convinced by his expression, and by the manner in which he spoke those words, that his intent was to tell me the truth.

Mildred had been 80-something when she died. I remembered her saying that he'd asked her if she liked to be called "Milly." I'd wondered how it occurred to him to ask about that. I'd guessed that he probably knew another "Mildred" who liked to be called "Milly."

If he had known Mildred, as a child, then it was small wonder that he cried as much as any of us at the combined funeral. Maybe he'd known a few of our other dead, too, and that explained his tears when he found them...

I shook myself, realizing that I was beginning to think as if he might actually be more than a century old. That was impossible!

Yet he spoke so reasonably... he believed what he was saying, I was sure of that much.

But it couldn't be true! I felt terribly confused.

Then an idea came to me... I think that I will always feel mildly ashamed of that idea, or at least I'll be ashamed of how I acted on it. He'd come into our village wearing that odd leather outfit with all its many buckles and straps... I thought of it as having 1001, but I hadn't actually counted. When planning to leave us, he was putting on those same clothes.

"Can I help you get out of that, and back into your pajamas?" I said. "It doesn't look very comfortable to sleep in. You'll need all the rest you can get, to help your body heal."

"I.." he began, but then he swayed just enough to lose his balance.

I stepped forward, reflexively putting my weight on my good foot, and caught him before he could fall. "Careful!" I cautioned. "This is _exactly_ why you have to stay here at least a little longer, whether you like to do it or not."

"If I didn't need to go stop him," Vash said, as I slowly lowered him until he could sit on his bed, "I would not be in any hurry to go."

"I hope that means I haven't annoyed you so much that you're eager to get as far away from me as possible?" I said, only half-joking, as I let go of him.

I started unfastening his buckles. As before, he was docile under my hand.

"Yes," he said gently. "Or, if you weren't needed so badly here, I might take you to the village where Doc, and the few other people who call me 'family,' all live."

"Humph," I said. "You're teasing me, again. Nobody here has any need for me."

"Danny, at least, would miss you terribly," he said. "In fact, I think most of the children would. And you would miss them."

I winced a little, but I stayed quiet. I had indeed missed the children. I hadn't realized it until Danny came to me after church, wanting to be picked up.

"The children would forget me sooner than this village will forget you," I said softly.

"This village has already forgotten me once," he said. "They will forget me again."

"I won't," I said stubbornly, "nor will anyone else, not as long as I'm around to remind them."

"And you'll do that without ever saying my name?" he said. He sounded playful, yet also curious.

"Of course I will," I said. "And, in the process, they will remember both 'the second man' and the lesson that's connected with him."

"Another reason why I shouldn't take you away to another village," he said seriously. Then, in a lighter tone, he added, "Besides, I shouldn't take as much time as that long of a detour would require."

"You'd really take me to your family?" I said, half teasing, half skeptical.

"If a number of things were different," he said sadly, "I would consider it."

"You called Yetta your sister," I said. "Why did you introduce me to her?"

"You are both lonely," he said. "Becoming friends could be good for both of you."

"Hmm," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say.

We were both quiet as I finished unbuckling his leather chest-piece. He still wore a bandage around his lower ribs. I couldn't see any red on it, but I was still concerned.

"How's your side doing?" I asked. "All the activity with Danny earlier, and then wrestling your way into that chest piece... those things must have pulled at it some."

"It hurts, but it's healing," he said.

As he put his pajama top back on, I gathered up the various pieces of his leather outfit. I put the chest-piece over my left arm, and then the pants, and then the sleeves, and then the boots and finally the gloves.

"You should probably blow out your light and get some sleep," I said gently. "I'll see you in the morning." I turned slightly toward the chairs, but I didn't put anything down.

"Okay," he said, looking at me as if he suspected what I had in mind. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I said.

I stood where I was, in his room near his doorway, until he blew out his light. When that was done, I turned and walked through the hallway into my own room. I carefully lowered his leathers onto my bed, and then I flopped down beside them.

I held still, listening quietly to the sound of his breathing, until it grew deep and even again. As soon as I was convinced that he slept, I got up as quietly as I could and slowly closed my door.

When the door was finally closed and latched, I lit my own lamp. I sat on my bed and stared at his leathers long enough to take a few deep breaths.

If I put those borrowed clothes under my bed, he'd be sure to find them. That was far too traditional of a place for a teen-age girl to hide something. My underwear drawers were also out, for the same reason. I had to do better than that.

I briefly considered putting his borrowed outfit into one of the unused bedrooms, but I discarded that idea, too. I wanted to know, and have an opportunity to talk him out of it, if he went after that outfit with intent to leave again before he was fully well.

I looked around my tiny bedroom and sighed. There was a distinct shortage of places to conceal anything. There were a few different places where I might conceal only the boots, or the gloves, or the sleeves, but... Suddenly, I realized that putting different pieces into different places would be better than concealing them all in a single location. It should slow him down, if he got in a hurry to run off again.

I quietly picked up his gloves, hobbled over to my sock drawer, opened it, and put them in. I took his boots and pushed them under my chest of drawers, behind my own shoes. I put his sleeves under my mattress (but not under the bed).

I carefully moved quietly, since I didn't want to wake either man who slept in the house. I hobbled to my closet. In a back corner was a small, half-hidden attic space. Many houses would have simply nailed that small space shut. Instead, my parents had made it into a place for one of my older sisters to conceal her treasures, years before I was born.

I pulled the closet door open, and pushed aside my clothes. I got down on my knees and undid the unobtrusive latch to that small attic cupboard-like space. I stood up, pulled down a spare blanket from the shelf above the clothes, and took it back to my bed. I carefully folded his pants and chest-piece, and wrapped them in the blanket. Then I put the bundle containing his largest leather pieces into that partially-concealed cupboard.

When the cupboard door was safely shut, I returned everything in the closet to how it had been. I closed the closet, working the latch silently, and looked around my room. It looked much as it always did. There was nothing visible to indicate how my room now held a secret.

However, I felt it in my heart. My conscience was already troubling me.

I tried to silence the nagging voice of my conscience, by thinking about how much this was for his own good. I blew out my lamp, and then slowly and carefully reopened my door. I set it wide, as it had been.

As quietly as possible, I hobbled the few steps to my bed, and then listened. Vash's breathing still sounded deep and even, so he probably still slept.

Relieved, I stretched out on my bed again.

I don't know how long I lay there pondering the many new ideas that Vash represented, or fighting with my own guilt. Eventually, exhaustion overcame both my confusion and my conscience, and I fell asleep.

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_Year 0092 month 2 day 18_

The next morning, I didn't wake until breakfast arrived.

I heard the knock on the front door downstairs, and nearly panicked. Through my open door, as I closed it, I saw that Vash's bed was neatly made and he wasn't on it. However, to my relief, I also saw that his bag was still resting in its usual place on the floor.

As I scrambled to choose clothes and get dressed, I heard a masculine voice downstairs. It sounded more like Vash than like Dusty. Had I truly been so deeply asleep that I'd not heard him go downstairs? I must have been, since I began to hear Dusty moving around in his room.

I shed my pajamas, and pulled on a pair of jeans as quickly as I could. I took an "over the shoulder boulder holder" out of my drawer, briefly lamented the loss of the sister who most frequently used to call it that, and then I wriggled into it. I hastily grabbed a shirt from another drawer, and pulled it onto first my left arm, and then my right.

I heard Dusty's steps going past my door and then down the stairs, as I buttoned my shirt.

When I opened my sock drawer, I was reminded of my last act before falling asleep last night. I offered up a silent prayer requesting forgiveness as I chose a pair of socks. I carefully avoided knocking Vash's gloves out of the drawer, and pushed it closed quickly.

With the aid of the sock-helper, I got fresh socks onto my feet. I couldn't help thinking of Sally, and Fred, thanks to Vash's questions yesterday morning. I pushed those thoughts aside as I opened my door and headed for downstairs. I dared not hurry on the stairs, as I'd be of no use to anyone if I hurt myself.

"Good morning," I said, as I walked through the doorway into the kitchen.

"Good morning," said Mrs. Wood.

"Good morning," said Lily Wood, a woman of 20 who had the misfortune of owning a name that was prettier than her face. She was almost excessively average-looking, though she was nearly as good at cooking as her mother was.

"Humph," said Dusty.

"Good morning," Vash said softly, and almost sadly.

Vash's face was mostly calm, but his eyes spoke volumes. His eyes showed more pain than they had when he was physically hurt. His expressive eyes looked much as they had when he spoke of Rem, or his brother.

The expression in his eyes pierced my heart. I feared that I might begin crying right there in front of everybody. I pressed my fist against my mouth, and held still outwardly while I struggled inwardly.

There wasn't a single thing that I could say or do to make things right between us, not while Dusty and the Woods were in the house.

The others were all looking at the table, as they began to sit down around it (Vash was holding the chair for Mrs. Wood, and Dusty was doing the same for Lily), but Vash was looking at me.

I hurried toward the chair waiting for me, blinking back tears, and tried to look my apology at him. I think he understood, because he lowered and then raised his head in what might have been a slow nod.

But his eyes still had that wounded look.

Another meal passed, during which I scarcely heard the conversation and barely tasted my food. Mrs. Wood's cheese blintzes were a rare treat, something that I usually enjoyed tremendously. She knew just how to fry Thomas-bacon strips to perfect crispiness, too.

Unfortunately, I was too busy trying to think of the best way to apologize to Vash to enjoy any of it. Even though I wasn't finding the words, I was impatient for them to leave so that I could at least try! No matter how much I blundered over my words, at least that would be better than sitting, helpless, while he hurt from something that I had done.

Each second felt like it lasted minutes. Each minute felt like it lasted hours upon hours. Ten minutes felt like an eternity. Would they never go? Didn't they know there was a harvest to be gathered in?

I knew in my head that the clock was not moving any more slowly than normal. My heart, however, refused to accept the evidence offered by my mind.

As with all things, in worlds affected by time, that breakfast eventually came to an end. The dishes got washed, and the Woods left (followed not long after by Dusty) to help with the harvest.

The instant the door closed behind Dusty, I turned to Vash and put my arms around his shoulders. I buried my face on his collarbone. The tears I'd been fighting to hold in all morning came flowing out so hard and fast that, for a time, I could barely speak.

"I'm sorry!" I sobbed, over and over again.

I guess I surprised him. At least, I _hope_ that was the reason why he didn't put his arms around my shoulders right away. Thankfully, he did return my hug after I'd said "sorry" a few times.

When I got enough control of myself to step back away from him, I was half-afraid to look at his face. I didn't know if I could bear to see him still looking so hurt.

"Did you think I lied, Martha?" he said sadly. "I thought you trusted me more than that."

"I _do_ trust you!" I said, my gaze instinctively moving to his face. "I was only worried that you'd try to leave again, before you were healed. As soon as you're better, I will give your clothes back. I promise!"

He looked doubtful.

"I won't like it," I admitted, looking downward again, "but I will do it. In fact, I'll give most of it back to you right now, if that's what you want."

"Martha," he said sadly.

My gaze chanced to linger on his knees, and I saw something that made several apparently unrelated memories suddenly come together in my mind. The combination told me something that I could scarcely believe I'd overlooked.

"You've been walking more stiffly than before the funeral," I said softly, "even with this many days for your side to heal. You should be back to roughly the same condition that you were in then, if only your side was hurt. You also hurt your knee, didn't you? That's why you're still having so much difficulty walking, isn't it?"

He sighed. "Yes," he said softly. "It was becoming more difficult to conceal the limp."

"I'm so sorry," I said, fighting back tears again. "If I'd only been paying more attention, I might have seen her coming. I might have dodged, and you wouldn't have had to..."

"It's all right, Martha," he said. "It did some good. Thanks to that, Ike will be watching over you. He will still be here to take care of you, even after I've gone away."

I felt like I might cry again. I put my good hand over my mouth, and clenched my eyes closed in an effort to hold in tears. I shook my head, unable to say how much more I'd like for him to watch over me than Ike. I couldn't speak, right then, without sobbing.

I felt his arms around my shoulders again. I put my left arm around him, just under his arms. I kept my right hand over my mouth, still trying to regain some composure.

"Martha," he said softly, "do you trust me?"

"Yes," I managed to say, barely above a whisper, "with almost everything."

I felt him move slightly, and I could almost feel his curiosity.

"What _don't_ you trust me with?" he asked, sounding completely puzzled.

"Taking care of yourself," I said, still trying to avoid giving way to the sobs that I felt pressing against my throat. I tried to make it sound like I was teasing, as I added, "I've seen your scars, remember?"

It worked better than I'd dared to hope. He chuckled.

"I guess you have a point, there," he said softly.

"Can you forgive me, then?" I managed to ask, before I had to shut my mouth again.

"I'm not angry with you, Martha," he said gently.

"But you're upset," I said. "I've hurt you... I never meant to, but I did..."

I couldn't keep the sobs down any longer. Again, I cried like a baby with my face buried against his shoulder.

"Faithful are the wounds of a friend," he said, with that slight sing-song tone that people get in their voices when they are quoting something. Then he added, in a more normal tone, "That kind heal the most swiftly, and rarely leave any scars."

When I could speak again, I said, "Does that mean we're friends again?"

"Yes, we are friends," he said gently. "That never changed."

"Thank you," I whispered.

This time, I didn't move away. I contentedly hugged him for as long as he would allow it.

Eventually, he said, "How about washing your face, and then we can both walk into town? I need to see what this knee can do, and Danny probably isn't the only little tyke who's been missing you. We can visit them. Little ones can be very cheerful, if tiring. Visiting them might make both of us feel better."

I took the hint, and stepped away from him.

"There's one other thing that I need to do first," I said.

I turned toward the stairway and started working my way up it. He followed, and I wasn't surprised to see curiosity written all over his face when I glanced over my shoulder.

He stopped in my doorway, though I went straight in to my chest of drawers. I opened the sock drawer and took out his gloves. I pushed it closed with an elbow, and then turned to him and extended his property.

"Thank you," he said.

I turned and got down onto my knees, and reached behind my shoes to get his boots. I gave those back to him, also.

"Thank you, again," he said. "The rest can wait until after we get back, if you like. I'm not going away, not yet. If I tried, I'd be… well, very over-exposed, if I only wore these."

I giggled, but the imagined image of Vash wearing only his underwear, gloves and boots was not displeasing. It did strange things to my insides.

"You have your long red coat," I said, "but wearing only that, with gloves, boots and regular undies, well... it could get a little drafty, on a windy day."

He grinned. "Shall we go visit the children?"

"Yes!" I said. I went to the bathroom and washed my face as he'd suggested. Then I returned to my room and put on a pair of sturdy walking shoes.

As I stood up, ready to leave, I saw through our doorways that he'd put away the gloves and put on his boots. He was pushing his pants legs down over the tops of them as I walked into the hall.

"Ready to go?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

We went downstairs, out the door, across the porch, and down the driveway to the main road. When we got that far, he let go of me.

"Want to race into town?" he asked.

"But you-"

"- can limp as well as you can," he said, his words a playful challenge. His eyes twinkled, and he was grinning.

"Mr. Second Man," I said, "you are _on_!"

We each hobbled as swiftly as we could down the road toward the village, but his legs were just enough longer than mine that he was beginning to gain on me. However, we both stumbled about the time we were even with the second resting-stone. We both fell to the ground, laughing in spite of ourselves.

"Did you win?" I said.

"I think it's a tie," he said.

"I'll go along with that idea," I said.

We picked ourselves up off the ground, and sat on the resting-stone. I looked up at the suns, and realized they were close to their zenith.

"Oh no," I said. "Did I cry all morning? Someone will be bringing lunch, soon."

"Then maybe we should return, and visit the children after lunch," he said.

So that's what we did. We stayed until the harvesters began coming to collect their children, and then we returned home.

After dinner, and dish-washing, and bidding farewell to the cooks, Vash asked to go outside. He sat on a side of the house that faced toward the open desert, and looked at the sky. I could tell that he was restless.

"Your heart and mind may be ready to go," I said, "but your body isn't quite caught up with them. Not yet. Please, try to be content, and bide here until you're stronger."

"Am I that transparent?" he said.

"I guess that old saying has some truth in it," I said, "the one about how it 'takes one to know one.' I know the feeling. Sometimes I want to leave this place so badly that it almost hurts. But, unlike for you, this place has always been my home. In time, I would grow to miss it. Eventually, I would return. Since I already know that, it doesn't matter too much when I leave. Or at least, that's what I tell myself when I feel that way."

I saw him turn his head out of the corner of my eye, to look at me briefly, before he returned his gaze to the sky.

"That Fred is going to be one heck of a lucky guy," he said.

"Will you stop with that nonsense about Fred!" I said, and swatted at his shoulder.

"Ow!" he protested, but then he started laughing.

I knew I hadn't swatted nearly hard enough to hurt him – in fact, my fingertips had barely brushed against his shirt – so I laughed, too. After we finished laughing, we sat in quiet companionship just looking at the sky until the suns were both well down. After dark, we went back inside.

When my door was shut for putting on my pajamas, I fished his leather sleeves out from under my mattress and then set the mattress and bedding back to rights. After our doors were both open again, I gave them to him.

"Thank you," he said playfully, "but even adding those would still leave it drafty, under my coat, on a windy day."

"I'll fetch the other pieces tomorrow morning," I said. "Though I hope you won't be putting them on right away."

He sobered. "Please don't ask for promises I might not be able to keep," he said softly.

I put my hand on his forearm, and it felt like my heart was in my throat.

He patted my hand and said gently, "Goodnight, Martha."

"Goodnight," I whispered hoarsely.

…

_Year 0092 month 2 day 20_

The following morning, I kept my promise and returned his clothes.

When I awoke two days later, only twelve days after the massacre, he was gone.

He left behind a note on a scrap of brown paper that simply said, "Thank you, for everything." It was signed, "From the Second Man."

…

_Year 0092 month 9 day 14_

About seven months after the Second Man left, I was watching my youngest niece.

Sally had named her youngest daughter "Milly," in memory of Mildred McCall. My sister had errands in December that day, and I'd been too restless to stay at home.

I thought I might take Milly with me to visit Yetta, since I'd not been to her bulb yet this week. She didn't always come out of her orb, but when she did she would smile or nod or wave at me. I figured that my niece was too young to be alarmed, whether Yetta came out or not.

Since the harvest was long over, everyone had returned to their usual daily pursuits. Some worked on their farms, others worked at their regular jobs. School was back in session, and most of the little children were again tended by their own families.

I was pushing little Milly in a stroller, and hobbling along behind it, when two unfamiliar men approached me. They looked a little lost, but they didn't have the hard, hostile expression in their faces that most strangers have.

They were an odd-looking pair.

One was very tall, at least as tall as the tallest man in our village. Unless I was mistaken, he also had slightly broader shoulders than our village's largest man. His hands were very large, and something about the way he moved told me that he was accustomed to using his strength. He had close-cropped sand-colored hair. He looked just a little bit sullen.

The other could scarcely have been more opposite. He was very slightly shorter than the other man's waist, yet somehow I knew that he was a man and not a boy. His limbs were lean, and his body narrow. His dark, curly hair was mostly hidden by a wide-brimmed hat which covered most of his head. He was smiling.

Somewhat to my surprise, they approached me.

"Pardon me," the smaller man said politely, "would you happen to know..."

He turned his head slightly, and his expression changed as he saw my left hand resting on the handle of the baby carriage.

I quickly hid my malformed hand behind my back, blushing.

"You wouldn't happen to be Martha Fitzgerald, would you?" he asked.

I blinked in surprise. "How..."

He smiled and extended his right hand. "Most people call me Doc," he said. "I received a letter about you, from a mutual friend."

"Vash?" I said, barely a whisper.

"Yes," Doc said, smiling even more broadly.

"Any friend of his," I said, smiled, and shook his hand.

I bashfully looked up at the other man, who still looked just a little bit sullen.

"Oh, don't mind Greg here," Doc said. "He's soon to be married, and doesn't like to be so far away from his bride."

"Pleased to meet you," I said to him, "though I'm sorry that meeting you means you must be away from someone that you hold dear."

His posture relaxed, just a little, and he nodded. "We wouldn't let Doc come all this way alone," he said gruffly. "He's family, and such a long trip can be dangerous."

I nodded at him, unable to disagree.

"And who is this?" Doc asked.

"My youngest niece, Milly," I said. "I'm looking after her today, while my sister goes shopping in December."

Little Milly waved a stuffed toy she was holding up in the air, and giggled happily.

Greg bent over to peer at Milly. "Strong family resemblance," he commented.

"Yes," I said, a little embarrassed. "Everyone says she almost looks more like me than like either my sister or my brother-in-law."

"It's not all that unusual for a child to resemble an aunt or uncle more than their parents," Doc said pleasantly.

I nodded, not quite knowing what else to say about that.

Little Milly giggled again. Her cheerfulness made both men grin.

Suddenly, the full reality of the situation began to sink in.

"You'll be needing a place to stay," I said, thinking out loud. "We have unused bedrooms at the house. You're welcome to stay with us, as long as you want or need."

"Thank you," Doc said, smiling again.

"Humph," Greg said. "He wasn't kidding. She's not like most outsiders."

Doc looked sideways at Greg, but didn't reply to his comment.

Milly cooed, and I saw him slowly begin to grow less tense.

"If you decide that you want to do this," Doc said seriously, "then we will need to spend some time at a hospital, too. He talked like there wasn't one in this village, so we may need to go to December?"

"That's true," I said. "This village is too small to attract a doctor. We have to go to December whenever we need medical care. What do you mean by 'if I decide to do this'?"

He put down a suitcase on the sidewalk and opened it. Inside were a left hand and a right foot. At first, I gasped and drew back. During those few heartbeats, I mistakenly thought that they were severed appendages. But then I felt silly, as I realized that they must be prosthetics. I drew closer again, fascinated.

"They're of the same craftsmanship as his arm and hand," Doc said softly. "And they're yours, if you want them. But I should warn you that first we will need to make them fit on you, by removing your current non-functional hand and foot. I'm not going to lie to you – cutting them off, even in a hospital with anesthetics, will hurt like crazy."

Little Milly giggled again. We all looked at her and smiled, before returning our attention to the reason that they had come.

"I understand," I said softly. I shook my head, and blinked again. "I'm sorry. To be perfectly truthful, I'm surprised. He said it would happen, and I knew that he believed it. But I didn't think that anyone would really come. Not for me."

"He said you saved his life," Doc said, "and showed yourself a true friend to him afterward. So of course we came. We wanted to meet you, if nothing else."

"I'm nothing special," I said, shrugging. I still stared at the prosthetics in the suitcase, unable to pull my gaze away. "I just tried to do what was right by him. I couldn't believe that someone would kill all those people, but then not fight back when they beat him."

"And there was proof of his innocence?" Doc said.

"Yes," I said. "Two people survived long enough to make a statement, though one died of her wounds later. Both said that he was the second man to come to that farm, not the first who did the killing. He was standing over one of the victims, to see if he could help her, when the sheriff arrived. Ike mistakenly thought he was intending to finish her off."

"So they beat him, badly," Doc said sorrowfully.

"Yes," I said sadly. "I wasn't able to stop them before they broke at least one of his ribs."

"I hope your sheriff apologized!" Greg said grumpily.

"I hope so, too," I said softly. "I didn't hear him say it myself, but I know that he visited both men during their stay in the hospital. I had nodded off in the chair between their beds, and then woke up to see him talking with Hank. Ike and the Second Man seemed to be on much better terms, before he left us. Ike even helped to change his bandages."

"Good," Doc said.

Little Milly waved her stuffed toy and giggled again. She seemed to like Greg, and he seemed to be – very gradually – warming up to her, too.

"Have you heard from him, since he left us?" I asked, unable to hold the question inside any longer. "I've been so worried about him! He was still having difficulty walking, when he left. Yet somehow he got far enough away, probably during the night, that I couldn't see him, even on the horizon, when I looked for him that morning."

"He's fine," Doc said, smiling. "We don't hear from him often, outside of special circumstances. When he makes a reasonable request, though, we're happy to answer it for his sake. He's very special to us."

"Yes," I said softly, "he is a very special person. I miss him."

"So do we all," Doc said gently. He closed the suitcase. "May we go to your house now, and get settled? Or do you have other errands in town that need tending to, first?"

"I was only restless," I admitted. "I thought about visiting Yetta, but that can wait. She had no reason to expect me."

"Oh, go ahead and visit your friend," Doc said. "We can go to the house on our own, if you give us directions."

Milly cooed again, her attention still on Greg. He grinned in response.

"You may as well come with me," I said, "since he's special to her, too."

"Sure," Doc said.

They followed me to the Plant, and Doc smiled. "Of course," he said softly.

Greg moved over to the computer, and started typing.

I gently laid my hand on the glass, as Vash had taught me. "Hello, Yetta," I said.

She chose to come out. I smiled at her, and she smiled back.

"So he introduced the two of you, did he?" Greg said. "She says she enjoys your visits."

"You can talk to her?" I asked, surprised.

"I know how to run the computer," Greg said, "that's all. I can't talk to her like he can."

I made introductions, and Greg did more typing.

"She says he's far away," Greg reported after a short pause. "Far from here, and far from home. He visited a Plant in that area yesterday, so as far as they know he's fine."

"Ah, that's good news," Doc said. "Thank you for asking her, Greg."

"No problem," he said.

"I wish I could learn to do that," I said, very softly; I was accidentally thinking out loud.

"That could be arranged," Doc said. "But first, we tend to your hand and foot... if you want us to do that."

"They already hurt," I said. "If it has to hurt more, for awhile, to get something that works... it would still be an improvement worth having."

Doc walked over to me, and patted my right hand where it rested on Milly's stroller's handle. "You don't have to decide today," he said. "This is a big decision. Sleep on it, and we can discuss it tomorrow."

"All right," I said, "though I expect that my answer will remain the same."

We bid Yetta farewell, and left the enclosure built around her bulb. Two steps beyond it, we ran into Fred... almost literally.

"Hello," Fred said to the men, a bit nervously. "Can I help you with something, maybe?"

"They're friends of the Second Man," I told him. "They'll be staying at the house for a little while."

Fred crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head to one side. "Really?" he said, sounding curious. "Please pardon my doubt, but before you follow one of our girls home, I'd appreciate some proof. Would you please be so kind as to describe him?"

Greg clenched his fist, but Doc gripped his wrist.

"It is a reasonable request," Doc said. "Would you want strange men going to the house of one of our girls, without speaking to them first?"

Greg's fists relaxed. "He's about this tall," he gestured at about his own eyes' height with one hand, "with blonde hair that sticks up like broom bristles. He's thin as a light pole, has blue-green eyes, and a dark freckle right here," he pointed at the appropriate spot near his own left eye. "He has a knack for getting himself into trouble, mostly because he won't stand by if there's even the smallest chance that someone might get hurt."

Fred's arms dropped to his sides, and then he extended his right hand. "I'm Fred Turner," he said. "Pleased to meet you."

Doc and Greg each shook his hand, and introduced themselves.

Fred returned to the blacksmith shop, and the other two followed me home.

…

_Year 0092 month 10 day 28_

I chose to have the operation done.

I returned home today. I'm still sore, but well on my way to recovering.

I've already learned most of the basics about how to use my new hand and foot.

Doc and Greg will be leaving soon, but my life will never again be the same.

It will be better.

…

…

_Author's Note: Greg is my effort to imagine Brad's father._

_Vash's quote was from Proverbs 27:6 "Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful."_


	11. Visits

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**: _I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": they belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

.

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 11: Visits**

_Year 0094 month 8 day 17_

So much has changed over the past two and a half years! If only I could show it all to Vash, or at least tell him about it...

Such were the thoughts spinning around in my head as I drifted off to sleep. Dusty had the night shift this weekend, so I had nothing that I needed to do besides watch the sunsets and then turn in early.

So that's exactly what I did.

…

I awoke to the sound of a knock on the front door downstairs. I could see through my window that it was fully dark and the moons had risen. I threw on a robe over my pajamas and hurried down, far less fearful of tripping than formerly.

I opened the door and it felt as if my jaw must have dropped halfway to the floor. Was I still asleep? Was this only a dream?

I could swear that, in front of my open front door, I saw Vash himself. There was enough moonlight, shining from the sky and reflecting off the side of the house, that I could see his face clearly.

"Hello, Martha," he said softly, and then he nodded downward. "May we come in?"

"Hello and welcome," I said. I looked down to see that he held a sleeping baby in one arm. His other hand held the drawstring of his bag, slung over his shoulder. "Please, do come in and tell me all about it." I shook off my surprise enough to remember to smile.

"Thank you," he said, and smiled in return.

He came in and I closed the door behind him. I could feel that old familiar heat in my face when he smiled at me. I hoped it didn't show in the moonlight.

"I'm sorry to intrude like this, so suddenly," he said softly. "I was in Augusta, following rumors of the killer. I found this baby lying in the street and crying. I asked around, but nobody knew anything about her family. So I started toward the orphanage with her. Unfortunately, she's not had any milk for two days. I've given her water, but that's not the same thing. I remembered that you usually kept some milk here, so I wondered..."

"Of course she can have some of our milk," I said, relieved that the child was a foundling and not his own. "Dusty's on night shift at the Sheriff's office, so he won't be home. I hope that the two of you will stay here, at least for tonight. Let her sleep on the couch. I'll get you something to eat while I'm warming some milk for her."

"Thank you, again," he said.

He put his bag on the floor, and then used both arms to gently lay the baby on the couch. By the time he'd done that, I had a chair ready and put its back against the outside of the couch so that she wouldn't roll off. I'd guess that she was about four months old: not yet big enough to crawl, but possibly able to roll unaided.

Vash joined me in the kitchen, though not before taking another chair and quickly placing it with its back against the couch, too.

I lit the lamp on the kitchen table, and then blew out the match.

"How have you been?" we both asked, almost in unison.

"I asked first!" he said.

"If I let myself begin," I warned him playfully, "I might not finish! I want to tell you about the whole time since you left, but I don't know if I can do that in just an hour or two. It could take half the night – or longer!"

"Go ahead and try," he said, flashing his lopsided grin. His eyes twinkled. "I have time."

I looked at him and tried to look stern. I could tell that it wasn't working, so I left off.

"Would you happen to remember the one thing that I don't trust you with?" I said softly.

Suddenly all the mischief seemed to vanish from his face. Instead of looking like he might be Up To Something, he suddenly looked as innocent as a newborn babe. He opened his blue-green eyes wide and looked a little concerned as he answered.

"Why, Martha," he said, "what are you saying while looking so serious? I'm alive and well – I'm not even bleeding or limping!"

"True," I conceded, "but you look so very tired..."

As we talked, I poured a little milk into a pan, and turned the heat on low. After that, I poured some water into a larger kettle, and turned the heat on high. I gathered noodles from the cupboard, some small (almost bite-sized) Thomas sausages from the refrigerator, and a little leftover cheese sauce from the refrigerator. It would be a makeshift meal at best, but it should fill an empty stomach well enough.

"I'm fine, really," he said more seriously, while looking only very slightly less innocent. "Please, go ahead."

"I might just do that," I said. "I've been aching to talk with you, ever since you left."

Vash grinned and sat back in his chair. He gestured, a silent invitation.

"A little over a month after you left," I began, "my sister Sally – do you remember her? – she had her baby. My youngest niece is a sweet child, and very cheerful. Everyone loves her. They named her 'Milly,' after Mildred McCall."

"I think Mildred would have liked that," Vash said softly.

"I hope so, and Sally hopes so, too," I said. "Milly is almost two and a half years old now, if you can believe that. She's already walking and talking, and she's growing so fast!"

I continued telling him everything.

I told him how it had taken longer than I would have expected, to grow fully accustomed to my new hand and foot. The amputation hurt – neither Vash nor Doc had exaggerated about that part. As they warned me, there are "ghost pains": but I also had those before.

After the initial pain from the amputations and attaching the new prosthetics wore off, it stopped hurting to take each step. Doc said that a bone shard had been pressing against my leg nerves, every time I put weight on my original foot. That was responsible for the pain that came with every step. He removed that bit of bone, when he operated on my leg.

Now I can walk without any limping at all. Better yet, I can do things that I could never do before – like run, and even dance! I diligently do my exercises every day, to keep my natural muscles from growing atrophied and to help my body remember how to make that new foot work perfectly.

All of that is only talking about my foot... I can't begin to count the number of things that became easier, or even possible, now that I have a second functional hand. I tried to tell some of these things to Vash, but I don't recall exactly what I said.

I demonstrated a little of what I can do with my new hand and foot to Vash, and he smiled. I turned quickly back to the stove, to hide the blush I felt heating up my face.

"I'd be eternally grateful to you and your friends, even if the hand and foot were the only gifts given to me," I continued. "But the gifts didn't stop there. Was it you, or them, who arranged for my tuition and a room at that university in December?"

"What are you studying?" he said, smiling and sounding more than just politely curious.

I guessed that he'd at least heard about it, since he didn't sound surprised. Thanks to their assistance, I could attend a university in December for up to six years. The room there meant that I wouldn't need to return home across the desert every single day. I do return home most weekends and holidays, but weeknights I spend in December.

"I've already completed one year," I said eagerly. "I'm studying to become a school teacher for the younger kids. When that happens, I will be able to spend most of every weekday with our young students – and I'll get paid for it, too!"

"So you'll never need to miss being around the children again," he said approvingly.

"I'm also taking some basic first aid classes, to assist people when they get hurt and while they travel to the hospital in December," I continued. "Except for those courses, I plan to spend most of my electives learning about plant engineering. If I succeed in learning what those classes teach, I will become able to do all of the basic things needed to take care of Yetta, and – best of all – to speak with her through the computer, and understand some of her replies."

He smiled again, and again I turned quickly to stir what was heating on the stove.

The milk was more than warm enough for the baby (I'd slightly overheated it, from being distracted by talking with Vash). I turned the heat off and moved the pan of milk off the burner. I poured the warm milk into a bottle, and attached a rubber teat for the baby to drink from. I set that aside, so that it could cool a little. The water in the kettle was boiling nicely, so I added the noodles, put the lid on, and lowered the heat.

"I'm studying very hard," I said, "so I've little time to do much else. The room they provided for me is perfect, on the nights that I spend in December. That room is about the same size as my bedroom here... just enough space for a bed, a chest of drawers, a closet, and a table and stool that serve as a desk and eating place (when I don't eat in the school's cafeteria). My room in December even has its own tiny bathroom, with a sink and toilet that have running water."

My room in December also had two luxuries that I tried to avoid over-using: an electric lamp, and hot water. I did use them sparingly during winters, but other times I tried to make myself manage without. The Plants in December are not inexhaustible, either. I wished I knew their names... perhaps, one day, I might learn their names, if I can do well enough in studying my courses on plant engineering to contact them via computer.

"I complete all of my homework on Friday afternoons," I said, "so that I may ride back with Ike in his Thomas-drawn wagon after he delivers his weekly report to the Sheriff's office in December that evening. That gets me home for the weekend. Then I ride back into December very early every Monday morning, with Fred."

"With Fred, eh?" Vash said.

"Oh, would you cut that out already!" I said, and again turned toward the stove to conceal my blush.

I stirred the noodles, which were coming along nicely, and replaced the lid.

"While I was at the hospital with Doc," I told Vash, "Fred started a second job at the Hansen's dairy. He began delivering milk six evenings a week. Mondays and Thursdays he does one route. Tuesdays and Fridays he does a second route. Wednesdays and Saturdays he does a third route. He's still working as a Blacksmith, too."

The house I share with Dusty is on Fred's Wednesday-Saturday route. Fred always comes here last, and sometimes he pauses to visit a little with Dusty. But I wasn't going to tell Vash that, not while he was in _this_ mood!

"On Monday mornings, Fred takes me and the milk into December. It's just part of his job, nothing more. He rarely speaks much, during that whole long drive."

"Hmm," Vash said thoughtfully.

"Since I'm no longer perceived as a burden on the town, I always get a full share of food now," I continued before Vash could get going on the subject of Fred. "That's exciting all by itself! I've had to learn not to overeat, which I used to do at potlucks (because I was hungry at other times). I think I'm getting the hang of that part, finally."

Vash grinned, looking amused, but he wisely made no comment.

"People still speak in hushed voices about 'the Second Man,'" I continued. "I've kept my promise, and made efforts to keep memories of him alive... without ever mentioning his name. I tell the children, every year, either around the anniversary of your coming or else around Milly's birthday."

He still seemed to be listening, though he wasn't grinning right now.

"I wish you could see how this town has changed, because you came to us," I said softly. "Everyone is much kinder to each other, and even to strangers. Oh, we're still cautious! However, while we keep our weapons ready, we also smile – sincerely – and hope that they might be like you instead of like the bank robbers who attacked while you were here. If a crime is committed, we do our best to learn the whole truth of the matter, instead of jumping to conclusions as some of us did then."

He nodded solemnly.

It seems as if everyone took his words about "love and peace" very much to heart... though few others have taken those words in more deeply than I have done myself.

"Ike kept his promise, and investigated the behavior of my former classmates," I said. "The better ones were ashamed of their part in harassing me. A few, like Ruby and Iva and Reggie, were entirely unrepentant."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Vash said. His voice sounded sad, like he meant it.

"At least their parents knew that what had happened was wrong," I said. "Those parents have been making extra efforts to teach their nearly-grown children better behavior, ever since. If they can learn to be better, even if it didn't happen until now, it will still make us into a town filled with better people than we were before."

He nodded.

Vash looked so very sad, when I told him that a few of my persecutors were unrepentant. Because of that, I chose not to tell him how Ruby made the mistake of trying to incite others to act against me again, after he left. Her persistent vendetta eventually made her into something of an outcast.

Her family was beginning to speak of moving to December, or at least of moving _her_ there. However, they also talk as if they might wait until after I've finished college.

I poured sauce in with the noodles, and added the small Thomas sausages. I turned the heat off under that kettle, since the heat still in the burner and the kettle should be enough to finish warming it.

I shook the bottle thoroughly, and then poured a few drops onto my wrist. Satisfied, I wrapped it in a small towel and took it in to the baby. Vash followed me and watched as I put the teat into the little one's mouth and held the bottle for her while she drank it … without ever waking up.

"Poor little dear," I said softly. "Too tired to wake up, even for milk."

When the bottle was empty, I threw the towel over my shoulder and picked her up. I was careful to have the baby's face over the towel. I walked back to the kitchen, to check on his food. Again, he followed me.

His food was ready, so I dished it out onto a plate. I performed that action one-handed because my other arm was busy holding the baby.

She burped, rather loudly, just as I was about to pick up his plate and take it to the table.

"Is that normal?" he asked.

"No matter how careful we are," I said, "they always drink a little air, too. If that comes out, they can rest and digest better."

"Oh," he said. "I'd wondered, but when I asked before... well, that woman just gave me a disapproving look."

"That's odd," I said. "Most people are glad to see someone wanting to learn how to take good care of a baby."

"I don't think she liked me," Vash said sadly.

"That just means she didn't know you," I said. "You're so kind and thoughtful! I can't imagine anyone disliking you, once they got to know you."

He blushed deeply as I set his plate on the table. He remembered where the eating utensils were, so he helped himself to a fork, knife, and napkin, and then he sat down.

I walked around a little more with the baby, and then took her into the bathroom and changed her. Although I hadn't done much babysitting over the last year or two, the house still had all the needful supplies. I wrapped her up snugly in her blanket, and walked just a little more to make sure that all the burps were out.

Vash was still busily eating, so we didn't talk then. Finally, I took the baby back to the makeshift crib on the couch, and laid her down to sleep. I got her an extra blanket, since the night was growing downright chilly.

When I returned to the kitchen, I asked, "How have you managed changing her?"

Vash swallowed and said, "I'd put wet ones up to dry at night. Dirty ones, well, those I'd scrub as best I could with the sand, or else, if they were too bad, I'd throw them away. We're starting to run short on diapers, to be truthful. I've not wasted any time. I've walked night and day, since I found her, until we came here."

"Small wonder she's exhausted," I said, "or that you look like something the cat dragged in. Please, stay here tonight. Get some rest. The orphanage will still be there in the morning."

"Thank you, Martha," he said softly.

He insisted on washing his dishes, but after that he staggered upstairs to the room he'd stayed in before. I checked on the baby one more time, before I went upstairs, too.

By the time I woke the next morning, Vash and the baby were both gone. I'd have thought their visit merely a dream, if he hadn't left a "thank you" note and some double-dollars to pay for his food and the baby's milk.

I had more to be thankful for, when I attended church the following day. I'd seen Vash again, and he was alive and well. I treasured that knowledge, and the knowledge that we were still friends.

…

_Year 0097 month 4 day 22_

My youngest niece, Milly, recently had her fifth birthday. That means it has been slightly over five years since "the Second Man" first came to our village.

I was sitting at home on the front porch, enjoying staring at the stars while silently praying for everyone whom I held dear. As so often happened, I lingered on the subject of Vash. My thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of distant footsteps approaching. That sound was blown toward me by the desert winds.

Little by little, the sound of footsteps grew nearer. The larger moons had not yet risen, so the stars were out in all their splendor and there wasn't much light. I sat quietly, waiting to see if the person making those footsteps was coming toward my house, or not.

Slowly a long, lean figure separated itself from the general darkness of the night. At first, the figure seemed malformed, as if it had two heads. But then the figure bent over, and straightened. The shape resolved itself into that of an adult holding the hand of a very small child. The taller figure was to my right, indicating that he was holding the child's left hand in his own right hand.

I rose to my feet, and started walking toward them. Something in my heart told me who the taller figure was. My steps quickened as I drew nearer to them.

My heart did not deceive me. The largest moon began to peek over the horizon, shedding more light as I reached them.

"Vash!" I said happily, and hugged him.

"Hello Martha," he said wearily.

He dropped his bag to briefly return my hug, without letting go of the small child's hand. Vash is so tall that he had to stoop a little, so that the small child's hand could reach his.

I knelt to greet his companion. "Hello," I said. "I'm Martha. Who are you?"

"Nicholas," replied the small, solemn, dark-haired child.

"Pleased to meet you, Nicholas," I said, and smiled. I extended my hand, offering a handshake.

He tipped his small head to one side, and frowned for a moment as he looked me up and down. Finally, he came to a decision. He extended his right hand, the hand not held by Vash, and nodded.

I would guess that Nicholas was somewhere between two and three years old. As I shook his hand, I didn't feel as I usually did when shaking a child's hand. There wasn't the sense of "this is a person, but he won't quite be my equal for a few years yet, until he grows wiser." I felt as if I were meeting an adult in a child's body: someone who was _already_ my equal. It was mildly unsettling.

"Would the two of you like to come to my house?" I asked. "I can get something for you to eat, and we have spare bedrooms where you can sleep."

"Thank you, Martha," Vash said softly.

"Of course," I said. I looked up at him, still smiling. "You should know by now that you're always welcome here."

Vash smiled. There was enough moonlight to see that clearly, now. I turned my rapidly-warming face away as I offered my left hand to Nicholas. He accepted. I stood beside the boy, looked over his head to Vash, and smiled again.

We went to the house and into the kitchen. Vash and Nicholas sat at the table as I made up some biscuits and warmed up leftover Thomas stew. We spoke of inconsequential things, and the small boy watched us with his intense dark eyes.

Something had hurt Nicholas, badly, but he was not crushed by that pain. Instead, he seemed ready to take on the world. I caught myself wondering if my own eyes had looked anything like that, back when I was still trying to learn how to walk, and stumbling far too much, at roughly his age.

The solemn child captured my heart. I'm not sure quite when or how it happened, but I wanted to adopt him. I wanted that very badly.

When they finished eating and I'd put everything away, I blew out the kitchen lamp.

The three of us went upstairs, to a room with two beds in it. I lit the lamp.

Vash took young Nicholas to the bed nearer the window. This meant that Vash would sleep in the bed nearer to the room's doorway.

I think the same thought was in both of our minds: a concern that this small young lad might try to leave, if he was the one nearer to the door. With Vash between him and the door, though, it was unlikely that any effort to run away would succeed.

"I can sing to you, and hold your hand, until you fall asleep," I said to Nicholas.

He looked at me with his wounded yet unflinching gaze. Then he turned his face toward the window, though he continued laying on his back.

I sang a lullaby to him, one that Sally used to sing to me. When the song was nearly ended, his small hand had reached toward mine. I took his hand, gently, and continued singing until he fell asleep. I sat there looking at him, still holding his small hand in mine.

"I'm guessing that he's another orphan?" I asked a little more softly than I'd been singing, to avoid waking the sleeping child.

"Yes," Vash said, equally softly. "I found him by his parents' bodies, near a car about a day's journey from here. From the injuries on their bodies, I think they were attacked by bandits. They probably told Nicholas to hide during the attack. Sometime after the bandits left, he must have come out of hiding to sit between their bodies."

"Oh no," I said sadly. "The poor boy!"

"I buried his parents," Vash said. "At first, he tried to stop me. I explained to him what I was doing, and why. I don't know if he completely understood that his parents would never again wake up, even though they looked to be about three or four days dead when I found them."

"And he sat by them for all that time?" I said. "They must have had a canteen or something, otherwise he would have died, too."

"Yes," Vash said. "He had a canteen, but it was empty by the time I found them. He probably hadn't eaten since they died. I offered him some of my food, but at first he wouldn't take it. He's an independent little guy. Eventually, though, his hunger and his will to survive caused him to accept my offers of food. It took me a long time to convince him to come away from them with me."

"A child like this," I said, in agreement with Vash, "shouldn't be carried away without agreeing to go. I suppose that means he must go to the orphanage? I wish I could keep him, but I've not yet finished school so I can't afford to support him quite yet."

That realization hurt. I would gladly quit school for this boy, but then I wouldn't be certified to teach. I might not be able to afford taking care of him, and all the money spent on my education would have been wasted. I couldn't do that to Vash, or his friends. It tore at my heart. I wanted, very badly, to give little Nicholas a home.

"Nicholas is compelling, isn't he?" Vash said fondly, looking down at the sleeping boy.

"He's not a quitter," I said softly. "In that, he reminds me a little of myself. I expect that he will always remember the faces and voices of those who took his parents away from him. I wouldn't want to be in their shoes, if he ever finds them!"

Vash chuckled a little, but then he sobered. "No," he said softly. "I wouldn't want to be his parents' murderers, if he ever finds them after he grows up, either. For his sake, I hope that he doesn't find them. He doesn't need killing on his conscience. He's already a thoughtful soul. A thing like killing someone else could tear him apart."

"I don't wish that for him, either," I said. "Although I do hope that those bandits are caught and stopped, before they hurt anyone else."

"I still haven't stopped the killer who took so many from this village, and others," Vash said sadly. "I don't want to kill him, or, at least, well, _most_ of the time I don't want to kill him. But he still needs to be stopped, one way or another."

"I'm sure that, when you find him, you'll know what to do," I said.

"I hope so," Vash said, very softly.

"For now," I said, "I think that you probably need sleep as much as he does." I nodded toward young Nicholas.

Vash favored me with one of his lopsided grins, and nodded.

"Goodnight, then, Vash," I said. "Rest well, and have pleasant dreams."

Reluctantly, I gently disengaged my hand from the boy's. "You sleep well too, Nicholas," I said softly. I smoothed his abundant dark hair with my fingers.

"Goodnight, Martha," Vash said. "Thank you, and pleasant dreams to you, also."

I left their room and went to my own. Soon I saw and heard their light blown out. Shortly after that, I heard Vash's breathing become deep and even, the sound of a man asleep.

I smiled, and drifted off to sleep myself while praying for both of them.

The next morning, as before, they were gone when I woke. Another "thank you" note had been left by Vash on the kitchen table, along with some double-dollars intended to pay for their food.

I sighed and shook my head. Vash didn't need to pay me. Didn't he know that? If I ever saw him again, I resolved to try slipping that money back into the top of his bag.

…

_Year 0098 month 6 day 25_

I visited the orphanage today, to inquire about little Nicholas.

I finally graduated from the university, earlier this week. As I'd hoped, I have been hired to teach at my home village's school. Although the actual teaching won't begin for a few months, they are willing to give me lesser paychecks each month, stretching out my salary, so that there will be money coming in all year long.

This meant that I could finally afford to adopt Nicholas. Even though a little more than a year had passed, I couldn't forget the solemn young boy. I still wanted to give him a home.

However, when I arrived and spoke to the people there, they told me that he had already been adopted. Since Nicholas knew his own surname, the orphanage staff had been able to research and find one of his parent's cousins living in December.

They had sent the boy to live with his kin, about a month after he was found in the orphanage's church (where Vash had taken him).

Although I was severely disappointed, I was also glad that Nicholas had a home.

I was too heartbroken, right then, to consider adopting a different orphan. I apologized to the staff, and left.

…

_Year 0101 month 5 day 8_

My youngest niece, Milly, recently had her ninth birthday. This reminds me that it's been nine years since Vash first visited our village... at least, during my lifetime.

It also means that young Nicholas, wherever he is, would be about six or seven. I still hoped and prayed that he was happy, and growing up strong and healthy.

As so often happens on Saturday evenings, Dusty and Fred were out on the front porch shooting the breeze. I was in the kitchen, cleaning up after the dinner that the three of us had shared.

I thought I heard a faint sound of sobbing, carried on the early evening breeze. It sounded like a child in distress. The voices of Dusty and Fred fell silent, as if they may have heard the same thing I did and wished to listen for further information.

I walked out the back door, and then around to the front of the house where the sound was louder.

I glanced to one side and saw Fred and Dusty both standing, and looking toward the road. I turned my own gaze that direction. I began running toward what I saw.

Vash was walking toward the house, carrying a blond boy in his arms. This boy looked to be about five or six years old. That young boy was the source of the heartbroken sobs.

Dusty and Fred were right beside me. They were a little slower to recognize "the Second Man" than I was, but they did.

"Let me take him," Fred offered, his voice gentle. He extended his arms toward the lad.

Vash slipped his bag's drawstring off his shoulder, and let it land with a thump on the ground. "Livio," he said gently, "this is Fred. It's okay. You can let him hold you."

Livio leaned toward Fred, keeping his face down. Soon he was in Fred's arms. Fred patted the little boy's head, where it rested on his shoulder, and murmured something in his ear in a soothing tone. The poor little fellow didn't stop crying.

"Mr. Second Man," Dusty said, extending his hand. "It's good to see you again."

Vash shook his hand and nodded. "Good to see you, too, Dusty," he said, smiling.

Vash extended his arm toward me, as if offering a handshake. He glanced toward Fred, and his eyes twinkled over his smile. He raised one eyebrow, very slightly.

I glared at him, dodged his extended hand, and hugged him. "It's so good to see you!" I said normally, but then quickly whispered into his ear, "Don't you _dare_ say any of that nonsense about Fred, or I'll put bitter herbs into your food!"

Vash laughed, briefly returned my hug, and said, "It's good to see you, too."

I let go of Vash, and turned to look at the thin, sobbing boy he'd brought with him.

"Let's see if some warm food will help," I said. "I've only just finished putting leftovers from dinner away, so it shouldn't take long to reheat them."

"Thank you," Vash said.

I went back inside, leaving the men to talk among themselves. Soon I had the leftover Thomas steaks, rice and salad dished up onto a pair of plates. I set them on the table.

Those leftovers had originally been intended for tomorrow's lunch, but I felt that Vash and the boy needed them, now, worse than Dusty or I would tomorrow. I was confident that Dusty would agree, though he might do so unenthusiastically.

The four were just coming in through the front door, when I stepped into the front room with intent to go to them and call them.

"Food's ready," I said. "Come and get it!"

Vash smiled, so I quickly turned around and walked back into the kitchen. Darn blushes!

Vash sat down by his plate. Fred sat by the other plate, gently adjusting Livio's position so that he was sitting in Fred's lap and somewhat facing his food.

Dusty helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator, and asked, "Does anyone else want a beer?"

"Or milk or iced tea?" I added, twisting my nose. I've never liked the smell of beer, and I refuse to drink anything that smells so nasty.

Fred nodded.

Vash smiled and said, "Sure, I'll take a beer. Thanks."

I shrugged inwardly and thought that nobody could ever be quite completely perfect, not even Vash. I turned toward Fred.

"Which did you want, Fred?" I asked. "Beer, or milk, or iced tea?"

I started pouring a glass of milk for the boy.

"Iced tea would be fine, thanks," Fred said distractedly. He seemed totally absorbed with efforts to comfort the crying boy.

The evening was awkward. Livio continued crying. He refused to eat, or even drink his milk. I was nervous that Vash might speak of his theories concerning Fred and I.

Over time, Fred had become a good friend to both my brother and I. However, contrary to Vash's silly ideas, he always seemed to be more Dusty's friend than mine.

When asked about the crying child, Vash said, "His parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time, it seems. Their house was right behind a bank, in May City. That bank was robbed, and the bodies of Livio's parents were found on that same day. I wandered into town two days after that had happened."

Vash sighed sadly, and then continued. "His neighbors say he has no known relatives. None of them were able to adopt him, though they told me his name. Livio hasn't stopped crying since I found him. Most times, he even continues crying after he falls asleep."

Vash shook his head sadly. "I couldn't leave him there, so I'm taking him to the orphanage. They'll take care of him. The staff there are all very kindhearted people."

Dusty said, "It's good of you to do that. Is he the first orphan that you've taken there?"

Vash's expression didn't change, nor did he so much as glance in my direction. "No," he said sadly. "No, unfortunately, Livio is not the first child I've found who needed to be taken there. Homeless orphans are far too common, I think. Though, honestly, I think even one is too many."

Fred kept trying, gently but unsuccessfully, to coax Livio to eat. Eventually, the boy cried himself to sleep, still sitting on Fred's lap. Fred gathered the lad into his arms and stood up. I led him to the room with two beds where Vash and Nicholas had stayed only five years ago. Together, we tucked the still-sobbing boy into the bed by the window.

"Poor little fellow," Fred said softly. "It must be hard, to lose one's parents so young. Though... I suppose you'd know about that, better than I could imagine it."

"In some ways he's luckier than I was," I said. "He knew both of his parents."

Fred nodded silently.

"In other ways," I said, still looking at Livio and almost reflexively thinking out loud, "he's worse off. He won't grow up with family and friends, or stay in the same house where his parents had lived. Because of those things, even though I knew that both of my parents were dead, I never really thought of myself as an orphan. I often regretted that I never knew Mama, and I've also regretted that I never knew Papa before he lost her. In some ways, Papa was already gone by the time that I was old enough to remember him."

"I'm sorry," Fred said softly.

Even though he'd spoken very softly, I nearly startled. I'd become so lost in my own thoughts that, for a moment, I'd completely forgotten that anyone else was there. Or that I was speaking my thoughts.

"I had imagined that it must be difficult for you," he continued in that same soft tone, "but I hadn't imagined it was quite that difficult."

I looked at him, surprised by his words. I shrugged. "I survived," I said.

"Yes," he said, still speaking softly. "Yes, you did. And you've done it well."

Was I feeling heat in my face again? I quickly turned away, realizing that I must be more embarrassed by his compliment than I'd expected.

"I suppose we should go back down and check on our other guest," I said. "If I know him, he could talk all night – no matter how tired he is. I can only imagine that he must get lonely, drifting about from town to town and trying to catch up with that killer."

"It's likely that he misses you, at least," Fred said, so softly that I wasn't quite sure if I heard him correctly.

I said nothing as we walked down the stairs and returned to the kitchen.

"I should probably go," Fred said. "You'll want to talk with the Second Man, and I've a few chores to tend before I turn in."

"Goodnight," Dusty and Vash both said, almost (but not quite) in unison.

"I'll see you to the door," I said, since I was already standing up.

"Thank you," Fred said.

I walked to the front door with him, and opened it. "Goodnight," I said amiably.

He stepped through the door, turned halfway back toward me, and said, "Will I see you in church tomorrow?"

"As far as I know," I said.

"And the Second Man?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. "He may vanish before daybreak, as he did when he left us before. I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

"I see," Fred said softly. "Good night, then. Rest well."

"Goodnight," I said. "Rest well whenever you rest."

I closed the door after Fred left, and then returned to the kitchen. I shared some small talk with Vash and Dusty, until my brother went upstairs to sleep.

Vash looked thoughtful, as Dusty left.

"What's on your mind?" I asked.

"There was something odd about Livio's neighbors," Vash said. "They almost seemed afraid of the boy. With a great deal of coaxing, and even more whiskey, I managed to get one of the adults to admit that there were suspicions that his parents had been mistreating him. Perhaps for years."

"Oh no, that's horrible!" I said. "That poor boy!"

"That isn't even the strangest part," Vash said. "The kids seemed to believe that Livio was the one who had killed his parents. A little fellow like that... it seems impossible."

"Children often have very active imaginations," I said. "Maybe they didn't see the robbers go in, so they guessed it was Livio who did the foul deed?"

"Maybe," Vash said. "Let's hope, for Livio's sake, that's all it was."

He yawned hugely.

"Well, you won't be much help to him, or anybody, if you don't get upstairs and get some rest," I said. "I'm tired, too. Maybe we can talk some more tomorrow, either before or after you get Livio settled at the orphanage."

"Maybe," he said sleepily.

"Livio is sleeping in the room at the end of the hall, with two beds," I said, "on the right side, not the left. The one on the left is Dusty's room."

"Thank you, Martha," Vash said. He stood up, yawning again. "Goodnight."

I watched him walk through the front room to the stairs before I blew out the kitchen light. Then I took my own turn going through that room, and upstairs.

It wasn't long before I fell asleep, still thinking of and praying for him and the boy.

…

_Year 0101 month 5 day 9_

As before, Vash was gone by the time I awoke. Again, he'd left a "thank you" note and some double-dollar bills. As usual, he'd left slightly more money than was truly needed to reimburse us for the food he'd eaten.

I added that money to the envelope where I'd put his prior payments. It had a note written on it that said how he didn't need to pay when he visited here. I had wanted to put it in the top of his bag yesterday night, but with Dusty in the room, there had been no opportunity.

Dusty and I attended church, as usual. Afterward, Dusty chose to go to the Brown's house instead of returning home. He and Clara Brown were becoming something of an item, so that didn't really surprise me. Besides, she and her mother are better cooks than I am.

Fred insisted on giving me a ride home, even though I told him that I was content to walk. So when we arrived at the house, I thanked him for the ride. As usual, he nodded and then flicked the reins and drove off.

Fred remains a man of few words... at least, to me. But credit where credit is due: he was consistently kind, and, sometimes (like last night), very thoughtful and considerate.

I walked into the house and started rummaging through the kitchen, seeking leftovers that I could eat for lunch. I wasn't in the mood to cook a fresh meal, not just for myself.

That's when I heard a knock on the door. I wondered briefly if Fred had forgotten something last night. That happened often enough. It seemed like Fred could be moderately absent-minded, at times. People said he was good at remembering blacksmithing or dairy orders, so I guess he wasn't absent-minded about everything.

However, it wasn't Fred that I found when I opened the door. Instead, to my surprise and delight, it was Vash.

"Vash!" I said, and hugged him. "I hadn't dared hope to see you again, so soon!"

"Hello again, Martha," he said as he hugged me back, and then stepped away.

"To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?" I asked, curious.

"To the ridiculous amount of paperwork the orphanage wants filled out, when someone is seen to bring in an orphan," he said. "Usually, I just leave the child in the church for them to find. I wait somewhere nearby, where they're unlikely to see me, and make sure that they find the little one. But Livio was crying so much, I couldn't leave him alone there."

I reached out and squeezed his arm. "You're a good person," I said warmly.

"I pretended to leave, but then returned unobtrusively," Vash said. "Most of the other orphans were ignoring him, but one dark-haired boy kept looking at him. I think it was Nicholas. Perhaps if they become friends, it may be good for both of them."

"But Nicholas was adopted," I said, surprised. "I went to the orphanage, as soon as I graduated from the university, a year after you left him there. I inquired about the possibility of adopting him. They said they'd learned that he had relatives in December, so they'd contacted those relatives. He was adopted by them."

"Well," Vash said, "the other children called him 'big brother Nick.' It seems unlikely to be a coincidence. His eyes had that same look, of almost daring the world to try anything with him combined with a stubborn belief that, somehow, he'd come out on top."

"That sure sounds like Nicholas," I said fondly. "I'll go tomorrow, and see what I can learn."

"If you do," Vash said, "you can see how Livio's settling in, too."

"I was about to get lunch," I said. "Won't you come in and join me?"

"Sure," he said, smiling.

I smiled back, before quickly turning to lead him into the house. Stupid blushes!

While I put together a real lunch – not something made of leftovers – I asked how he'd been. He talked about wandering on the desert, sometimes almost poetically... even though he wasn't using fancy words. It was the ideas that felt almost musical.

We ate in companionable silence, but I found my mind working furiously.

I still blush when he smiles at me. Although I'd avoided looking into my own heart, I almost instinctively knew that my feelings for Vash ran far beyond "just friends." I began to wonder... If I told him, would that make him more inclined to come and visit?

I looked up from my dwindling meal to consider his face. I guess he somehow sensed that I was looking at him, because he looked up from his own meal long enough to smile at me. Surely I saw warmth in his eyes, before he returned his attention to his meal?

I didn't want him to go. I kept thinking on it, as I cleaned up the dishes and slipped the envelope with his money into the top of his bag when he wasn't looking.

I came to the conclusion that I had to say something. We got as far as the front porch before I awkwardly blurted out words that I'll probably always blush when I remember.

"Vash," I said softly.

"What's on your mind?" he said gently.

"When you first came here," I said, "I told you that you were welcome to anything in the house. You warned me that could be misunderstood."

"I remember," he said.

"Back then," I said, "I was sixteen and I didn't mean it like that. Now, I'm 25. If I said that to you again, but this time I _did_ mean it that way... would you..."

Suddenly, it felt like my throat was closing up. I couldn't say another word.

"Oh Martha," Vash said sadly.

I heard his bag go "thump" on the boards of our porch. I waited, tensely, but he didn't put his arms around me, or try to kiss me, or anything like that.

"I would consider it a marriage," I blundered on, "and we could see the preacher either first or after, which ever you want."

"Martha..." he said again, sounding even sadder.

After a few heartbeats went by, I realized that he still wasn't reaching for me. Tears stung my eyes. I turned away from him, not wanting him to see me cry.

"I hadn't thought that my scars would put you off," I said, half sobbing. "Not you."

"It's not that," he said softly.

"Is it that you prefer men?" I asked.

"No!" he said quickly, taking half a step backward. "It's _not_ that, not at all."

He stepped toward me. But he only laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Martha," he said gently, "you need and deserve someone who can be here for you, and love you every day of your life. I can't do that, not for anyone."

"Why not?" I said.

"The man I'm chasing, he would know immediately... if I ever allowed myself to care enough about anyone to make what you're suggesting appropriate," Vash said sadly. "He would lead me far away from here, and then he would return. He would kill everyone in the entire village – men, women and children. Including you."

I was silent, half-inclined to disbelieve him. Yet his voice sounded sincere.

"I would mourn you," he continued, "but I would be unable to save you. And I would feel guilty, for the rest of my life, for allowing myself to attract his attention to you. The only way I could hope to protect you and the town would be to stay here – but if I do that, then many people will die in other cities, towns and villages."

I remained silent, unable, just yet, to find any words to respond.

"I'm sorry if I somehow seemed to encourage any ideas or hopes that we could marry," he finished softly. His voice still sounded very sad. "I never meant to do that to you."

"I never meant to fall in love with you, either," I said. "It just happened. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. It's just that... well... I thought you cared for me, too..."

"I _do_ care for you," he said firmly, "just not as a man toward a woman. As a friend."

I nodded, and, for a time, I was silent.

"Please," I finally managed to say, "don't let my foolishness keep you away. It's so good to see you... I don't want this to be the last time."

"I can't make any promises about that, Martha," he said. "I don't know where my pursuit of the man who killed so many people here, nine years ago, will lead."

I turned and hugged him. "I won't say goodbye," I told him, "because I will always hope to see you again. Please, Vash, always take care of yourself."

His return hug was more awkward than earlier. "I'll try," he said softly.

He gently disengaged my arms from around his shoulders, and stepped back. "You take care of yourself, too," he said.

I nodded, too choked up with emotion to speak.

He picked up his bag by its drawstring, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he walked out of my life, pausing only long enough to turn and wave from a distance.

…

_Year 0110 month 8 day 17_

I visited the orphanage the day after Vash left, as planned. The staff reported that Nicholas' guardians in December had been shot, so he'd been returned to them.

When I spoke to Nicholas, and offered him a home, he had adamantly stated that he lived there. I didn't fight against his wishes, though it nearly broke my heart.

Dusty married Clara Brown, about a year after Vash's last visit. They live on her family's farm, so I inherited my own family's house. I still live there.

My newborn daughter awoke, ending my time for revisiting memories. I gently lifted her out of her cradle to cuddle her and coo at her.

She cooed back, which made me smile.

I took her to the bathroom and changed her diaper. When she was clean, I returned to the front room to feed her. I sat on the couch and had a baby-sized blanket handy, in case her father and older brother returned from their milk run before I finished.

I wonder, sometimes, if I would have ended up marrying Fred Turner if the man hadn't been around so much, and if Vash hadn't put the idea into my head. I'm not completely certain that Vash didn't put the idea into Fred's head, too.

Vash can be sneaky, at times.

I finished feeding little Vashelle, covered myself, and leaned my sleepy daughter against my shoulder to burp her. I stood and walked around the room.

As I passed the desk, I resisted the urge to pick up Milly's letter and read it again.

My niece has kindly informed me that "the Second Man" still lives. He lives, still disfigured by all of those terrible scars, and currently without his prosthetic left arm.

He lives evading the law. I can't help suspecting that the reason he's wanted is for yet another crime that he did not commit.

I suspect that, again, he was the second man… and not the first.

I may never see Vash again, but my niece is with him. She will be a friend to him. Nobody will treat him as Ike and Dusty did, not while Milly is nearby with her stun gun.

It gives me a kind of peace to know that. I look out the window, and remember his face.

May love and peace find you, my friend. And… thank you.


	12. Reflections

_The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin._

**Note**: _I do not own Trigun, Meryl Stryfe, Milly Thompson, or "Vash the Stampede": they all belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow._

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**The Second Man**

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**Chapter 12: Reflections**

_Year 0104 month 7 day 21_

When Vash first awakened, amid the rubble that was the remains of the once-great city of July, he remembered almost nothing. Apparently, his mind had been thoroughly numbed by whatever had happened there.

When he searched his mind, he only found memories from his earliest childhood – up to the day of the Great Fall. After the day when the ships fell, he remembered absolutely nothing. He was shocked to find himself both fully-grown and missing most of his left arm (thankfully, somewhere he'd acquired a fully-functional prosthetic arm that replaced his severed limb).

The desert winds whistled and howled mournfully through piles of rubble that stretched as far as he could see. Dust and fine ash drifted down from the upper atmosphere, to dance upon the winds, and then, eventually, fall on and around him. Wind gusts caused his tattered coat and cloak to snap as they moved around his body.

He was physically shaken, too. At first, he was barely able to sit up. After a few tries, he managed to stand. Then he staggered around, looking for other survivors who might need whatever help he could offer.

He was dimly aware of his brother's presence. However, with his own most recent memory being that of the Great Fall, Vash did not feel prepared to face his sibling. So he staggered – away from his brother – toward a different part of the city's rubble.

Vash found no survivors. He didn't even find any corpses.

After realizing that the ground beneath the rubble was concave instead of flat, he half-climbed, half-crawled to the top of a moderately tall rock. He sat there to rest, while he looked around. He saw only devastation. He bowed his head, in weary grief.

The wind gusts continued whipping his tattered cloak and coat around his head and body, or else pulling at those outermost garments as if they would tear them away from him.

Vash still felt an intense, burning pain that was only very slowly receding from his body and his mind. He held still, somewhat precariously perched upon that rock, for hours.

Eventually, people came from beyond the rubble. When they saw him, their faces turned angry.

He fled when they came after him, accusing him of being responsible for the terrible destruction that surrounded them.

Vash desperately hoped that they were mistaken. But he didn't know.

Because he was so extremely exhausted, and then compelled to flee from angry people who blamed him for July's destruction, it was several hours before he discovered his scars. That discovery had been another shock.

He ran farther into the desert's endless dunes, half-wanting to lose himself there forever.

...

_Year 0110 month 9 day 25_

During the six years that followed the loss of July, most of his memories had returned.

There were still gaps, which troubled him. For example, he still could not recall anything that had happened near to the time when July was so completely destroyed. However, the gaps from prior years were growing smaller almost every day.

One missing memory, which had particularly plagued him since meeting the insurance girls, was how familiar Milly Thompson seemed. If he'd met her before, in recent years, she would have recognized him. Yet she didn't.

Why, then, were there so many times when her tone of voice, or a turn of phrase, or a facial expression, or a gesture, seemed so _incredibly_ familiar? It must be that she reminded him of someone else. Yet, try as he might, he simply could not recall anything specific about that "someone else."

Whoever Milly reminded him of must have been a friend. He missed her. Oh, not in the same way, nor with anything close to the same intensity, that he missed Rem. The ache for this unremembered friend was much smaller, but it was there.

It resembled how he missed most of the people who belonged to the Seeds Village (there were a few closer friends there, like Doc and Luida, whom he missed more). Yet, somehow, Vash didn't think the one he missed (but couldn't remember) was a Seeds villager.

When he awakened this morning, out on the open desert, he'd felt very near to recovering that memory. He sat up and silently contemplated the face of the younger insurance girl while she slept. Yet, once again, the memory had eluded him. It was so frustrating!

Milly was as cheerful as always, but Meryl seemed to have climbed out of the wrong side of her sleeping-bag this morning. The petite, dark-haired insurance agent had been grumbling, and walking more slowly than usual, all day long. The result of her balking had been that they didn't arrive in town until slightly after 3:00 pm, instead of at noon as he had originally anticipated.

The town's cafe that sold doughnuts was nearly ready to close for the day. Vash quickly arranged his facial expression into his very best woebegone pleading look, directed at the girl who was locking the door. Thankfully, it had worked. He and Milly went in, while Meryl stalked off to visit the local branch office of her employers.

Milly ordered some of Meryl's favorite foods for her, in the hope that it might cheer her up. The junior insurance agent was chattering on about how nice it would be to wash up and sleep in a regular bed tonight.

Vash didn't disagree, but he did whine a little about not being permitted to eat any doughnuts until after some "regular food" had been eaten. It was good practice. Besides, if he could make these insurance girls (who already knew who he was), forget at times how dangerous he could be... then his act should work even better on strangers.

His whining about doughnuts seemed to bring out Milly's maternal instincts.

"Now Mister Vash," she began, and then she continued chattering on about how important it was to eat healthy food first.

Milly's gently firm voice was partly pleading, partly persuading, and partly scolding. She would become a fine mother, someday.

Vash couldn't help smiling, just a little. Milly rarely complained for herself. Her gentle heart always seemed more concerned for others who were enduring the same discomforts, instead of focusing on herself. Hopefully, over time, she would become a good influence on her temperamental partner.

They were both so young. He realized he was beginning to think of nearly every ordinary human he encountered as a child. They were a lot younger than he was, he had to admit, but many of them were no longer children. He made a mental note to correct that trend before it grew into a bad habit.

Suddenly, into his mind flickered a remembered image. Although the face was unclear, he could clearly see in his mind's eye a pair of dark-chocolate-colored eyes. Through those eyes, he saw a spirit which was deeply wounded, but not defeated, looking out at him.

Those wounded eyes were almost exactly the same shape as Milly's, though in an entirely different color. Was he finally beginning to remember his forgotten friend?

He inwardly forced himself to let his mind relax. Over time, through trial and error, he had learned that was the best method to encourage sleepy memories to reawaken.

Vash continued gently teasing Milly with his childish protests, and thereby distracting her from worrying about Meryl, until the food arrived. The waitress efficiently arranged their food on the table. He and Milly dug in. The younger insurance girl seemed to be enjoying her food, and he was pleasantly surprised by its quality, too.

But she also kept glancing nervously toward the door.

Meryl appeared before long, much to Milly's relief. The senior agent brought with her some mail that had been forwarded to the local branch office.

"Oh!" Milly said, delighted. "There's a letter from Aunt Martha!"

Milly enthusiastically opened the envelope. She began reading her aunt's letter quietly to herself as they ate. Her eyes devoured the words on the paper almost as enthusiastically as she devoured her lunch.

Martha? The image of a face much like Milly's flickered through his mind.

The half-remembered face was framed by shorter hair than Milly's, and that hair was slightly darker and less golden. Those eyes, which were the same shape as Milly's (but with a hue resembling dark chocolate instead of the midday sky), were part of the face that he was finally beginning to recall. The face he saw was a few years younger than the insurance girl's. Yet her young eyes had carried an early maturity forged through pain.

Milly's aunt? Well, that would make some sense. Strong family resemblances could happen between such near kin. Apparently, all Vash had needed, to begin unlocking the missing memories of his friend, was her name. He couldn't recall much about her just yet, but at least he had a face and a name. For the moment, he tried to be content. Having this much meant that the rest would also return, in time.

He quickly finished his salmon sandwiches, so that he could close his eyes as if he were simply thoroughly enjoying his doughnuts.

The previously elusive memories began trickling into his mind. Martha was another gentle girl, much like her niece, who worried about others. She had been a cripple when he met her, and an outcast – even to her own family. Yet she had dared to stand up to her own kin, to plead for his life.

Vash opened his eyes, and glanced at Milly. The resemblance really was _very_ strong. Their noses were different, but the shapes of their eyes and faces were extremely similar. Mystery solved. No wonder Milly's face had teased at his missing memories so much!

He pulled himself out of the returning memories, and focused his attention on what Milly was saying about her aunt's letter. He continued pretending to be entirely absorbed with enjoying his doughnuts.

"I told Aunt Martha, in my last letter, about your scars Mister Vash," Milly was saying. "Last year, just before I left home to go to December and begin working as an insurance agent, she told me a story. I'd heard the story about the Second Man before, but that time she told me a lot more about how he looked. She hoped that, if I saw him, I would be a friend to him. She said we owe him, because of what he did for us."

The words "the second man" set off another cascade of memories. The picture wasn't complete, not yet. At least it was finally forming.

"The second man?" Vash said, carefully controlling his facial expression to show only a very mild curiosity. "What did he do for you?"

"Not me, specifically," Milly said. "It's what he did for our village."

"Get to the point, Milly," Meryl grumbled impatiently. "What did he do that was so great that your aunt wanted you to recognize him if you saw him?"

"He helped us to rediscover who we should be," Milly said, in her usual cheerful manner.

Then her smile faded, and she spoke more softly. "There was a massacre, about two months before I was born," she said. "They arrested a man that they found standing over one of the two people who was still alive. But he wasn't the murderer. He was the Second Man, and he'd come to help."

"What's so great about that?" Meryl said, sounding bored and annoyed again. "That kind of mistake likely happens a lot." She took a bite of her lunch.

"They almost killed him, Miss Meryl," Milly said. "In fact, if Aunt Martha hadn't interfered, they might have killed him by beating him to death."

Meryl nearly choked, but she managed to finish her current mouthful of food safely. Her eyes were wide with astonishment and horror.

She said, "That's terrible!"

"Yes," Milly said sadly, "it was. He recovered, but to everyone's surprise he didn't get angry. Instead, he talked about love and peace. He encouraged them to be more careful in the future. Everyone felt so badly about what had happened that they listened to him. And they changed. It's a better village now than it was then."

"How did they learn their mistake?" Vash said, again carefully controlling his voice to sound only mildly curious.

"The two people that the Second Man tried to save lived long enough to tell about him," Milly said promptly. "Hank is still alive, though he's getting very old now. Every year, around the anniversary of when the Second Man came, either Hank or else Aunt Martha will tell the story to everyone. It's like our village has its very own holiday, about him!"

"I see," Vash said noncommittally.

The words "Hank is still alive" echoed through Vash's mind and heart, touching deep places that he hadn't shared with anyone since Rem died. As he heard those words, he remembered who Hank was. He remembered why it mattered that he had survived.

So... Hank had recovered. Vash had often wondered, before July stole his memories. It felt very good... better than he could have imagined... just to know that Hank still lived.

"We'd all thought that Aunt Martha might die an old maid," Milly continued chattering cheerfully, almost as if she didn't fully understand what that statement implied, "but Fred Turner kept visiting her. It seemed like everybody except for Aunt Martha knew he had taken a shine to her. They finally got married four years ago. About two years ago, they had a little boy, that they named 'Frank' after Fred's grandfather."

"How nice for them," Meryl said dryly. She sounded as if she'd entirely lost interest in anything that Milly was saying.

_'They didn't marry until four years ago?'_ Vash thought, a little surprised and doing his best to keep that from showing on his face. '_Oh man, it sure took him long enough!'_

He picked up his glass of milk and began drinking from it. His mind was on Milly's words, and his slowly returning memories, instead of his milk. He drank slowly, pondering as he listened to her.

"I had wondered, a few times, if you might be the Second Man, Mister Vash," Milly said, "even though it would mean you'd have to be about 40 years old and you look a lot younger than that. I think that Aunt Martha might think you're the Second Man, though. She and Fred had a baby girl a week before my letter arrived. They named her Vashelle."

Vash nearly choked on his milk, and sputtered, "They named her _what_?"

"Vashelle," Milly repeated, undaunted and smiling. "I think she might be named after you, Mister Vash."

When he recovered enough to speak, he said, "It's probably only a coincidence."

Even as he said it, he knew better than that. He felt heat in his face.

Meryl briefly looked at him thoughtfully, but then she returned her attention to her food. "There's no way that you could be forty," she said decisively, with her mouth full. "Twenty-five, at most."

"Maybe I'm older than I look," Vash said mischievously.

"Are you the Second Man?" Milly asked, sounding a little confused but very curious.

Vash took a large bite of doughnut. He shrugged and looked out the window.

He saw out of the corner of one eye that Milly looked disappointed. However, she soon recovered. She began to chatter about various things that were happening in her home village according to her aunt's letter.

Vash half-listened, while still looking out the window. He knew that his mind would record every word she said, and play it back to him as needed. Half a doughnut was held, briefly forgotten, in his hand. He was again examining his newly-awakened memories.

He now remembered coming upon the scene of a massacre, too late to save most of the victims. He recalled trying desperately to save the two who were not dead. He remembered being arrested, and beaten severely. He remembered Martha's voice – a voice that sounded nearly identical to Milly's – pleading with Ike and Dusty to stop.

He remembered feigning unconsciousness. He attempted to gather his strength enough to resist them and fight for his life (hopefully without injuring them) if they didn't stop. He remembered Martha continuing to plead, until they relented and started picking him up to put him on the bed in the cell. He recalled passing out as they moved him.

He remembered persuading Martha to tell him her whole life's story as she looked after his injuries. He remembered protecting her, later, and seeing something in her face and eyes that suggested she might be looking toward him as something more than a friend.

He remembered seeing a similar expression in the face, and especially the eyes, of young Fred Turner whenever the youth looked at Martha. She hadn't noticed it, but Vash had.

Vash had told Martha more about himself than usual, hoping to cure her of that blossoming infatuation. The poor girl was so desperately lonely that she still looked on him too fondly even _after_ he'd told her the truth about what he was.

It had been almost like having a friend from Seeds, when he was badly in need of a friendly face. Now that he'd recovered those memories, he would always treasure them.

The picture still wasn't complete, but at least he remembered Martha now. More memories continued awakening. He began to relax more, internally. It felt so good to remember!

He felt an amused smile playing around the corners of his mouth as he remembered two times when he spoke with Fred on the subject of Martha.

"It won't help Martha to be admired from a distance," Vash had said. He and Fred were standing on the porch of Martha's house, while she held Fred's sleeping baby brother inside. "She needs a friend, someone who will help her to feel less lonely."

"I know," Fred had said, blushing. "I've tried, but I never know what to say. And then I feel so embarrassed that I walk away before I can even get close enough to talk to her."

"Then perhaps you might try being friends with both her and her brother," Vash had said. "That would get you around her, and it might help you figure out what to say to her."

"I might try that," Fred had said, hesitantly. "Thank you."

"Take care of her," Vash had said. "She's a good person, and everyone needs friends."

"I'll try," Fred had promised.

So Vash hadn't been terribly surprised when he learned that Fred had taken a job that took him to Martha's house twice a week. Nor was he surprised to learn that Fred had often found reasons to linger there. Vash had fully understood what was happening, when he learned of it. Martha had remained completely oblivious.

Vash began to remember bits and pieces of having returned to the village, twice, after he left it. Both of those visits had occurred when he found young orphans that needed the orphanage outside December. First, there was a baby girl. Several years later, there was a young blond boy who hadn't stopped crying - no matter what anyone did for him.

After the trip with the crying boy, Vash had known that he shouldn't return to visit Martha again. The sweet girl had made him an offer that he was forced to refuse (for her own good). He couldn't say it hadn't been tempting, because it had: she was willing to marry him, even knowing that he might return rarely... or never. However, doing something like that would not have been fair to her.

There was the other side of the coin to consider, too. He was at least as lonely as she was. If he allowed her that close to him, even once, he was very likely, over time, to fully reciprocate her feelings. She was such a kind, gentle soul, that – if he allowed himself to do so – it would be very easy to begin to love her as she loved him.

But even if he successfully protected her from his murderous brother, he didn't know what it might do to him when her brief human lifespan ended. He still missed Rem, and it hurt terribly that he could no longer see her, or hug her, or speak with her.

He couldn't afford to allow himself to be crippled by heartbreak. Not while his brother was still out there, somewhere, killing people.

Would Martha have been worth it? Vash suppressed an urge to sigh as he asked himself that question. He would have given his life for her, if needed. Giving his life _to_ her, for half a century or so, though... he didn't know. He couldn't let himself think about it. The timing had been all wrong. It still was.

Aside from all other concerns, there had also been all the worries about how many others he could not protect, if he was busy protecting a wife. No, he could not permit himself that kind of loving relationship until after his brother stopped killing... no matter who offered, or how much he craved it.

Vash had a responsibility that he could not turn his back on. Martha had the blessing of someone nearby who loved her in exactly the way that she craved. If he got out of the way, perhaps she would finally see and recognize the one who was already there for her.

He had refused Martha as gently as possible, but it had still hurt her. He'd never meant to hurt her. The fact that he had hurt her, in spite of his best efforts, grieved him greatly... both then and now, as the memories continued returning.

He'd left the village that day by way of Fred's house.

"I won't be coming back," Vash had told him apologetically. "If I did, it would only hurt Martha. She said something today that tells me she completely misunderstood our friendship. I don't want to cause her any more pain than I have already."

"Do you mean that you're not... that is," Fred said, blushing and looking down, "she, uh, well... she seems pretty keen about you. I can't do anything for her that would compare to giving her that new hand and foot."

"There are things that I have to do," Vash had said sadly. "I can't stay. Not now. Not with her, nor with anyone else. I thought I'd made that clear to her, the first time I was here. I never meant to hurt her."

Vash had shaken his head, and sighed. "Besides it couldn't work, even if I were to try," he added. "She will be far better off if someone else comes far enough into her life to take care of her. She needs someone who loves her romantically, too, and not only as a friend. I can't be that person, Fred."

Fred had nodded quietly. "Safe journeys to you, then," he had said. "You've been a good friend to everyone in this town. Better than we deserved, especially after the way that some of us treated you. I hope you've forgiven us?"

"Yes," Vash had said. "Your town's young 'good Samaritan,' and the ladies who brought us food, have paid off that debt."

Fred smiled. "Martha is amazing, isn't she?" he had said, his whole heart in his voice.

Vash had smiled and clapped Fred on his shoulder. "I'm not the one who needs to hear you say that," he had said.

Fred had blushed deeply, from his neck to his hair to his ears. "I know," he had said, very softly. "I'm trying."

"Good," Vash had said. "Now I really must go. Take good care of yourself. And, if she'll let you, please take good care of Martha, too."

"I will," Fred had said.

That had been nine years ago. Yet it had taken Fred five more years before he married her... two years after the loss of July and 14 years after Vash had become known to that village as "The Second Man." Why had it taken so long? Could it be that it had it taken the destruction of July for Martha to realize that he would never again return there?

Vash was glad that neither Martha nor Fred was alone anymore. He believed that they could be happy together, and he sincerely hoped that they would be.

It still seemed a little unreal that Martha had named her daughter "Vashelle." That idea would take some getting used to.

Vash felt a little heat in his face, and looked down to discover the half-eaten doughnut still waiting in his hand. He mended that oversight immediately. This doughnut wasn't as good as the ones made by Mrs. Epstein, all those years ago, but it was still a doughnut!

He looked at Milly, still happily chattering away, and smiled slightly.

'_Milly's a good girl, too_,' he thought to himself. '_She's a lot like her aunt, and not just in appearance. Thankfully, Milly doesn't bear a heavy burden of physical and emotional pain, like the pain that had forced her aunt to grow mature beyond her years_.'

With his last doughnut finished, Vash reached again for his milk. He paused, briefly, before drinking any of it.

During that brief pause, Vash's heart toasted his friends, Martha and Fred. He hoped that all would go well with them, and with their children. It was almost a prayer.

'_Is God listening?_' he wondered. Vash had no objection if God was listening, especially if it resulted in Him looking favorably upon Martha and Fred. '_If you are, then … Please, take care of them_.'

With those thoughts in mind, he drank every drop in the glass.

As Vash set the glass back onto the table, he glanced out the window again. He pictured Martha's face in his mind, and remembered their farewell hug.

'_Be safe, happy and well, dear Martha_,' he thought. '_And... thank you_.'

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**Author's Note**

Since I have been asked, inspirations for this story include (in no particular order):

_\- Trigun _and_ Trigun Maximum_

\- A very old black-and-white "Western" film. It began showing the hero of the story arriving at the scene of a massacre... too late to save anyone. He began looking for survivors. He was discovered by the local people, while he was checking various deceased wrists in hopes of finding a pulse. As a stranger in the area, he was immediately (and erroneously) blamed for the heinous crime.

\- "The Parable of the Good Samaritan" found in Luke chapter 10 verses 29-37. I wondered how someone might practice those principles on "No Man's Land" (or "Gunsmoke," as some call it). In "The Second Man," there are two who could qualify as "Good Samaritans" ... although each of them only recognizes those qualities in the other.

\- Two years spent in an area where cowboys still round up their cattle on horseback.

\- Years lived near a small farming town with quirky electrical connections, resulting in frequent power outages.

\- A teacher whose left hand was withered, because of an accident that severed the nerve of his arm approximately a decade before he came to teach at the school where I attended. I watched him with admiration, every day, as he had to live with (and work around) having a non-functional withered hand. I saw how it looked, how the circulation was imperfect, and how he had to be careful to keep it adequately warm... partly to avoid it becoming diseased, or damaged, in a manner that would require amputation.

\- Years after encountering the one-handed teacher, an injury forced me to deal with a non-functional hand and foot. I had to limp, and work around having only one functional hand, for a number of months. Recalling how my former instructor had handled such matters helped me to get through those difficult times.

I hope the resulting story provides enjoyment, at least, to all who read it. :)


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